Fleeting Fear
by slim-chance17
Summary: "If there's only one thing that my mind can figure out right now, it's this. I'm going to die." After the crew saves a stranger and convince her to stay, she finds that she might not dislike the hateful Daryl Dixon as much as she thinks she does.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead.**

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><p><em>They say that in a moment of panic, your mind leaves you. Something disappears completely. All that planning, function and reason just floats away, leaving nothing but action and fear. <em>

_Fear. That's the worst part, really. Fear is what causes you to make bad decisions. Fear is what fucks up something beyond reason. So you learn to live without it. Fear becomes something that cannot be tolerated. Or at least, that's what Shane said. He talked about a switch, inside your brain, which you have to turn off in order to survive. You have to be ruthless and unmerciful. _

_In this world, a world where the living are few and the dead are rising, fear does naturally come into the equation. But you can only allow that to happen for a moment, a fleeting second, before you have to find that switch and shut it off. _

_Aim. Breath. Shoot._

Bang.

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><p>If there's only one thing that my mind can figure out right now, it's this.<p>

I'm going to die.

The dead are running, sprinting towards the door, weakly held together by a rusty chain. It won't buy me more than a few moments. With my hands gripping around my gun tightly, I spin on my heels and run. I don't know where in that moment, but I know I have to run. There's something undeniably strange about the rush of adrenaline you feel when you know that you're living your last few moments. Like your blood is running hot through your veins, or that your heart feels like it's about to burst from your chest.

I'm running. I run past the aisles, and toward the front door, that seemed to be barricaded possibly weeks before my arrival. Large, heavy planks of wood are blocking that precious escape. Lord knows why I thought this place was safe. A run-down, roadside gas station doesn't exactly scream 'shelter'. But it's at times like this that I have to remind myself, there's no such thing as a safe place. Only _safer_ places.

As I reach the door, I fling myself at the wood barriers. I pull with a strength that I didn't even know existed, until I hear a crack, and am able to pull part of the protection away. I reach for another, feeling the splinters break away underneath my fingertips.

The door behind me cracks, and the chain falls to the ground in a tingling requiem.

I pull at another plank, breaking away enough room for me to squeeze through. I slide to the ground, kick through the glass with my foot, and watch the pieces shatter to the floor. As I crawl under the space, the glass cuts my back. But there's no time to think about that. When I reach the outside, I jump back on my feet, and stumble forwards.

The fresh air hits my face, welcoming and warm. I waver for a moment, standing in the sun, letting my eyes adjust. The air is sweet and hot, but I can't enjoy it yet. The heavy sound of frantic, hungry feet can be heard behind me, mixed with growls and snarls. As I turn, I see that they are crawling under the same gap. I realise that I need to fight back, because they will never stop chasing me unless I stop them.

I swing my gun up in front of me. I have four bullets.

There are five of them.

The first shot's a perfect hit, right in the center of the forehead of a large, ugly fucker. But I can't celebrate yet. I aim and shoot the other in the eye, sending it flying to the ground. I have seconds left. I aim and shoot for the third's brain, but I miss, and it goes through the cheek of the snarling monster.

"Fuck," I mutter to myself.

I try again, sucessful this time. It hits the bastard through the head, and he goes flying backwards. I'm out of shells. There's nothing left to do but run.

I drop the gun, (it's worthless now), and begin sprinting down the road. It's crazy, I think, of how stupid this all seems. I'm running from the dead, and right now, they've got one up on me. My breaths are short and shallow as I run, never looking back. I can still hear them behind me, gasping and growling for their meal.

I'm running for around three minutes before I consider giving up. Zombies don't run out of energy, but I do. I don't think I can run any furthur, and I wish that I had the sense to save at least one of those bullets for myself. But the thought only passes, because I know for damn sure that I'm not going to let those monsters be my end. If I'm going to die today, then I'm doing to do it myself. My choice, my way.

Then it happens. I take a wrong step, and go flying, crashing to the ground beneath me. Not only that, but I skid across the tar, and feel a painful tearing under my arm, and warm liquid spreading across my skin.

This is it, I think. All I can do it bury my face into the ground, and wait.

I'm done.

When you think you're going to die, it's not like most people say. Not for me, anyway. They all say that your life flashes before your eyes. That's crazy, because for me, I can't think of anything beyond what's happening right here, right now. I can't think of anything else other than the fact that the zombies behind me are going to kill me in a matter of seconds.

_Bang. _

I freeze. I know for certain that what I just heard was not part of my imagination. And the large thump on the ground was definitely real.

_Bang. _

A second gunshot rung through the air. Another thud. Silence.

I'm still for a moment, before I slowly lift my head from the ground. I carefully roll over, staring at the sight before me.

The two zombies are now on the ground, blood spewing from a hole in one's head, while the other has a rather intimidating arrow sticking through it's own.

Everything is silent. I can't think straight.

"Stay still!" A voice yells from between the trees. "We're coming to you!"

Stay still? I can't even breath, let alone move. I let my head fall back to the ground with a rather harsh hit to the surface. I try and calm myself by watching the wind brush the trees before me. From the other side, I hear feet, running towards me across the road. As they get to me, I hear the sound of a gun click.

"You bit?" Another voice asks. The barrel of the gun is pressed against my back. "Hey! You alive down there?"

Seconds later, a pair of hands grab my shoulders and gently roll me over. I can't see. My eyes are too fuzzy with the pre-sleep daze that fogs my vision. What I can see, are figures. Four, to be exact. Other than the faint outlines of their bodies, I'm blind.

"Answer the question," the one with the gun to my back snaps. It's harsh.

I don't know why, but I feel my lips spread into a small smile. I can tell they're waiting for an answer, but I can only breath out one phrase.

"...Not today," I whisper.

Someone above me says something, but it's gone in moments. The darkness in my mind is pulling me deeper, and before I know it, everything is black.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE WALKING DEAD.**

**Reviews are always greatly appreciated. Hope you enjoy.**

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><p>The first thing that I think of when I wake, is that I am neither in Heaven, nor Hell.<p>

But then I remember that I'm not dead. I could be, but I'm not.

As I open my eyes and sit up, my hands grasp the fabric that's underneath me. I'm on a bed, small, but surprisingly comfortable. Not only that, but I'm moving. The whole room is shaking with small, fragile movements. I only figure out that I'm in an RV when I look outside and see the world passing by. The trees flying past with a flash of colour.

I try and work out the situation in my head.

I was saved. People saved me. They must have taken me with them. The important question was whether or not they were to be trusted. I had my fair share of bad encounters with looters and thieves. How is it that while the world's being cleared out, it doesn't take the shit along with it?

I push myself back against the headboard, feeling the vibrations of the motor against the wall. I take my time to look across the room.

Whoever's vehicle this is, they sure travelled a lot. There are pictures of famous landmarks, beautiful landscapes, scattered across the room. There's a fishing rod hanging on the wall, and a flag pinned against the window. Something about this particular place reminds me of the world before all this mess. It's nice, and has a sense of home about it that I forgot I missed. Whoever inhabits this place can't be threatening.

I decide not to get up and look around. I think that it's probably best to stay where I am until we stop somewhere. At least let these people feel in control. She obviously was not harmful, and she had to let them work that out on their own.

I look down and see my arm, freshly bandaged in a neat manner. That was a nice touch. Binding the stranger's wounds.

I also notice that my boots are missing. That's not a big loss. They were old, and on their last steps. The leather had been worn and ripped. Not much good against the zombies.

I only have a few self-made procautions when it comes to the dead. Boots are one of them. When they're up and walking, they're easier to handle, but when they're down on the ground and you can't see them, then you've got a problem. Maybe these people have some spares I can borrow before I head on my way.

My fingers entwine themselves with each other, and I place them on my lap. This is nice, I decide. This small touch of civilization.

Then the door opens.

I don't move. But the door opens furthur and someone steps in. It's really not what I was expecting, because a kid walks in. A small, dark-haired, freckled boy steps in, and moves toward the wall. He doesn't even see me. It's only when I clear my throat that he even turns.

His eyes are slightly wide as he sees that I'm awake. Naturally, he takes a step back.

I make the first move. "Hi." I even give him a small smile, hoping that it would make him comfortable.

He hovers slightly, eyeing me. "Hi."

There's a silence between us, before I figure that this isn't going anywhere. I shift and sit up a little more. "I'm not going to bite, you know."

He relaxes slightly, and lets his arms dangle by his sides. "Well," he begins. "First person we've seen in a while who doesn't."

I give a small laugh. "True."

He smiles at that, and steps forward a little. "I'm Carl."

"Good to meet you Carl." I reach forward and extend my hand. "Thanks for helping me out."

Carl reaches forward and grabs my hand in a firm shake. "I didn't find you. The others did."

As I release, I quirk an eyebrow. "How many of you are there?"

His brow furrows as he looks down. His fingers move as he counts silently for a few moments, before looking back up and answering, "Ten. Including me."

"Huh." I flick my head towards the window. "Where are we headed then, Carl?"

He shrugs and decides to slowly sit on the side of the bed. "I'm not sure. I think we're just moving forward."

"Where did you come from?"

Carl's eyes flicker to the ground momentarily. "A farm back the other way. They...kicked us out."

From the way that the kid's stopped looking at me, and the way his voice has suddenly gone all quiet, that this is a subject not to poke at. Sucks to have to move from anywhere that's remotely safe. And this guy, he can't be more than eleven or twelve. It's amazing, really. I feel bad for him.

The silence is broken when the RV takes a sharp turn, and both Carl and I sway slightly. After a moment, it stops all together. Carl looks up at me, before rising from his seat.

I sigh heavily and swing my legs gently over the side. "Well, I guess I should probably go and thank the others, right?"

A brief moment of consideration hovers over his face for a moment, before he backs away and holds up his hands. "Hang on," he says. "I should get my dad. Don't go anywhere."

I'm curious to meet 'Dad'. So I nod and bring myself back so that I'm sitting against the edge of the bed. Carl watches me for a moment, before disappearing out of the door as fast as he can.

When the door opens again, I straighten myself. I expect Carl again, but this time, a tall, lean man steps in. His face is slightly brushed with dirt, and he's wearing a dark shirt that's crinkled. His face is gentle, but he stands tall with an almost commanding presence that portrays authority. He walks in, and stands just before me.

"Hello," he says, gently. He extends his arm, holding his hand out. He doesn't smile or anything, but there's a certain softness to him that I appreciate. "Officer Rick Grimes," he says in a southern drawl.

I reach forward and grasp his hand. "Good to meet you."

He lets go and drops his arm by his side. His eyes run over me as he speaks. "That was a close call you had there."

I scoff slightly, before reaching back and running a hand through my hair. "Yeah. It was." I look up and catch him watching me with narrow eyes. "Thanks," I say. "Thanks for saving my ass."

"Don't mention it." He sighs and slowly sits down by my side, clasping his hands together.

He seems nice enough. This man, Rick, spreads a feeling of comfort through me. I feel like I should trust him.

I pointed towards the door. "Your son, Carl. He's a nice kid."

He smiles then. Just a small one, never reaching his eyes, but a smile none the less. "Thank you." He looks up and catches my eyes. "He's good with people."

"Yeah, he's harmless." I smirk. "Unlike you, I have a feeling that you're a dark horse."

"Well, I don't know about that," Rick chuckles. He nodded towards my arm. "You fell and scraped up your arm pretty bad. My wife, Lori, fixed it up best she could."

"Thank you, I appreciate it."

Rick stands up suddenly, moving across the room, and turning, folding his arms across his chest. "We were out huntin'. He heard the gunshots and saw you runnin' without a gun, so we intervened." His eyes narrow again. "What where you doin' without a weapon?"

I sigh. "I had a gun. It ran out of bullets, so I dropped it. An empty gun is useless."

"Fair point," he says with a shrug. "Listen," He lifted his head and glanced at me. "We have food. And water. I'd feel a lot better if you sat down and rested before you moved on."

I shouldn't. I know that I really should just up and out, leave these people with a thank you and a goodbye. But the offer of food and drink sounds too sweet to my ears, and I do find the idea of meeting my savours rather appealing. I give him an appreciative smile and say, "That would be great."


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE WALKING DEAD.**

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><p>As I step outside, the warm air hits me.<p>

I follow Rick dutifullyacross the patch of land. Looking around, I realise that there seems to be a fairly large amount of people in this group. That's good, I think, the bigger the better. I'd seen groups of smaller than three, and they never seem to last. But then again, who am I to talk? I've been on my own for the good duration of a few months.

But these people seem to have a good system. We haven't stopped for too long, and already, they're setting up somewhat of a campsite. I see hunting equipment, and some guns in a large, black police bag. I wonder if it would be totally inappropriate if I asked to borrow one or two before I left. After all, I did drop my gun back at the gas station. Looking back, it was a pretty stupid choice to make. I remind myself never to make a shitty move like that again.

Rick leads me over to what looks like a campfire scene. Some large logs make a decent seating area just across from the RV, where some people sit, engaging in various activities. I watch as Rick walks up to a pair of them, and I recognise Carl sitting on the end of a log. The other is a woman, appearing to be sorting through some laundry.

The woman is thin, with long dark hair and a soft face. Rick walks up to her and clasps his hand around hers, squeezing it reassuringly. "This is my wife, Lori." She looks up and gives me a small nod of acknowledgement, before returning her attention to the folding of clothes.

Rick continues, patting Carl on the head a few times before ruffling his hair. "And of course, you know Carl."

Carl gives me a smile, and I decide that he's my favourite so far. I give him a small wave. "Hey, kid."

Another man, tall and large, sits beside Lori and Carl, a large gun in his hands which he cleans lovingly with a cloth. "This is Shane. He was with us when we found you."

Shane looks up and pauses from his work, lifting the brim of his cap slightly. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

"You too."

Two women are sitting opposite them, one quiet and short haired, the other blonde and tan skinned.

"This is Andrea."

Andrea, sharpening a knife, raises her head and smiles warmly, raising her fingers in a small salute. "Welcome."

"Hi."

"And Carol."

Carol looks up from the ground, and gives a weak smile. She looks like her mind is away from the world, and her eyes are slightly cloudy and red. I wonder, for a moment, if she'd been crying. She seems perfectly kind, so I give her a small smile back.

"Hi," I say softly.

"Hello."

I feel Rick's hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me away from the group. He walks me towards the front of the RV.

Two men are standing by the front of the Winnebago, sweating under the blistering sunlight and playing with a box of tools. Rick walks up to one and pats his hand on the other's shoulder. "This is Dale, and T-Dog."

This guys look nice. Not nearly as strict or intimidating as Rick or Shane. They give out an impression of friendliness, not authority.

I give them a small smile. "It's a pleasure."

The one wearing a hat, (I assume him to be Dale), steps forward and extends his hand. I return the shake, as he grins widely. "The pleasure's mine, young lady."

As he releases, I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the palm of my hand. "Geez, how are you two standing this heat?"

"We're not," T-Dog sighs, puffing his cheeks out. He points to Dale. "I'm sweatin' my ass off here, following his crazy orders."

In return, Dale rolls his eyes and smacks his arm with a screwdriver. "Don't be overdramatic," he scolds. He waves his hand towards a group of trucks just across from the RV. "Glenn's over there."

I follow Rick once more towards a pair of large trucks. A small, koreanguy is sitting on the roof of one, searching through a large, black rucksack.

"Glenn!" Rick calls, "Get down here!"

The guy jumps swiftly down from the roof of the truck, and skillfully lands on the ground.

"This is Glenn."

"Hi," he says with a smile. He also reaches out to shake my hand. "I'm the guy who knows how to get things."

"I'll be sure and remember that," I grin.

Rick smiled and patted the younger man on the back. "Of course Glenn does more than that. He was another one of your saviours."

"Thank you, Glenn."

Glenn ducks his head and smiles into the ground. "Anytime."

Rick claps his hands together. "And that's the crew," he sighs. He turns his head, eyes narrowing. "Except one. Where's Daryl?"

"Dixon went out," Shane mutters from where he sits. "Went to go huntin'. Left as soon as he got the chance."

"You'll meet Daryl later," he explains. "Just, mind him. He's a little..."

"Crazy? Violent?" Glenn offers from behind.

"I was going to say sensitive, but that works too." Rick turns back to me. "Just watch your words around him. He's a little...out of sorts recently."

I nod. "Will do." I've learnt how to deal with those type of people. I've met a fair few crazies along the road, some worse than others. Often I wonder why the world didn't take some people with it when it went to shit, but then I remember that those type of people were always here. It just takes a zombie apocalypse to realise that they exist.

There's a moment of silence from the rest of the camp. I feel some eyes on me, watching, waiting for me to say or do something that will give them a reason not to like me. I decide to stay quiet.

It's Carl that breaks the silence, and from his seat he asks me, "What's your name?"

Remembering that I haven't actually given these people any introduction to who I am, I shake my head. "Oh geez. Look at me, being all rude." I bring my hand up to my chest and smile. "I'm Lyla."

Beside me, Rick smiles. "Well, Lyla. Make yourself comfortable, because you ain't leavin' till we get some food down you."

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><p><strong>Just a quick notice to say a huge thank you to all the reviewers and people who put this story on alert. Have no fear, a certain redneck will be introduced in the next chapter. Reviews are always greatly appreciated. Thanks, y'all!<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE WALKING DEAD.**

**Reviews are always welcomed and appreciated!**

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><p>"So, Lyla, entertain us."<p>

I have my feet nestled into the dirty soil, enjoying the peaceful, calm feeling it gives me. My boots are flung to the side, practically falling apart. It's only when I hear Lori's voice that I even look up from the ground. She's sitting on the log beside me, Carl kneeling in front of her, as she firmly holds him in place, snipping the ends of his hair. The sky is a light purple now, preparing for the dark black night ahead. It's the most peaceful I've felt in a long time.

I kick the ground beneath me. "How would you like me to do that?"

"Where have you come from...where are you headed...the usual post-apocalyptic chatter," she replies with a soft smile. Carl shifts uncomfortably underneath her as the sissors snip the ends of his hair.

"Well," I begin. "I worked in Atlanta when everything began happening. Everyone kept saying to stay in the city." My toes curl in the soil, remembering the sounds of open fire in the streets. The cries of desperation and screams of distress. My head shakes, as I try and rid my mind of the images. "But that didn't work out so well. I knew that it was a bad idea the moment I heard of the army's arrival."

"You're lucky you got out," Lori replies, her mouth twisting into a frown. "It was a mess."

"Yeah," I sigh. "Lucky for me, I got out just before they started closing the city limits. Ever since then I've just been town-hopping. Trying to survive."

Lori doesn't turn to face me, as she pulls a stray hair from Carl's neat cut. "You got any family you need to find?"

I go quiet for a moment, and look around. Dale's up on the top of the RV, a pair of banoculors in one hand, a shotgun in the other. My eyes drift slowly to the dark mass of trees around us. They are probably walkers around. But they have a good system. The cars are tightly packed together, the guns are safely stored, but easily accessible. It's then that I realise that her question remains unanswered.

"No," I reply quietly. "Not really."

Lori's eyes lift for a second, before dropping her attention back to her son below. "We all have our stories." It's barely a mumble, just above a whisper, but I hear it loud and clear.

I try and break the silence. "So, what's your story, then?"

Before she speaks, Lori ruffles a hand through Carl's hair, before patting him on the shoulder. "Done," she sighs, leaning down to kiss him on the head. Carl makes a small sound of disgust, before jumping up and giving his mother a lopsided smile.

"I'm gonna go find Dad."

"Stay close."

And with that, he jogs away, leaving Lori and I in silence. She turns and smooths out the frabric of her shirt, before speaking. "We lived in a small town, not too far from the outskirts of the city," she explains. "Rick was working a lot, and I was busy being-"

"A mom?"

She smiles. "Hardest job of all. Anyway, Rick was injured in action. A shot to the shoulder landed him in a coma for months." A small but noticeable shutter runs down her back, and her eyes cloud for the smallest of seconds with a memory of what happened. I feel sorry for her and Carl, having the weight of something like that on your shoulders. "Things started getting bad, the outbreak started to spread...I had no idea what to do. It was a hard choice; should I stay and wait with my husband? Or leave with Carl and return when things cool down?" She shook her head. "I was at a loss. Lucky for us, Shane came. He and Rick are like this-" She holds up her fingers and crosses them together. Holding it for a moment, she let's them fall as her eyes drop with them. "Well...most of the time."

"Shane brought you out?" I ask, trying to urge her on.

"He said that everyone was moving to the city. There was food, shelter, and protection. It seemed the obvious choice." Her shoulders fall in a heavy sigh. "We never even made it near the city. The roads were blocked through and through. That's when..." She breaks off into a silence.

I remember it clearly. "...They started dropping the bombs in the streets."

She nods. "Yep. So, we found Carol and her family, before finding Dale with the girls, then we set up a small campsite just up in the hills," she says, pointing her finger East. Up in the valley, there are a few hills. Swarmed with trees and lakes, I understand how that could be a good hiding place. Away from all the destruction. "More and more people began to join us. We kind of had a little vacation spot going," she jokes. "It was just about one, maybe two months ago that Rick came to us."

I smile. It sounds like a miracle, really. "I can't imagine how good that must have felt."

"I couldn't believe it. I still can't." She looks at me, a gentle smile gracing her face. "I keep wondering what I did to deserve getting him back."

We both fall quiet for a moment. All I can hear are the faint sounds of crickets chirping, and the sound the winds rustling against the trees. The metal clinking and clanking from the small mechanic shop they having going around the RV. The sound of guns clicking together as someone checks them over. The sound of firewood being piled up and arranged.

I think of how lucky they are. Not in the long-term sense, obviously they've lost more than they can bear, and nothing is ever easy. But in the scheme of all that is going on, all the messed-up shit we have going on in this world, they were lucky enough to even survive at all. But to survive together, in this one big group of fairly tolerable people with supplies and care...it made them the luckiest people I'd met so far.

Suddenly, a twisting ache in my stomach reminds me of how hungry I am.

"When are we eating?" I ask, trying my hardest not to sound rude. It does come out slightly desperate, though.

Lori gave me an understanding grin. "Soon."

"I hope you like squirrel," I hear from behind me. A leg reaches over the log and hops over. Glenn sits himself inbetween Lori and I, removing his backpack and placing it on the ground before him. "That's pretty much all there is to eat nowadays."

"Anything's fine," I reply. "I can't complain, you're all very kind for letting me eat with you."

"It's no trouble." His eyes watch me for a moment, before narrowing in wonder. "So...you're really all on your own? All this time?"

I shrug. "I just never found anyone worth travelling with. I've always felt comfortable when I'm alone."

"Yeah, been there, done that," he replies, a slight bitterness lacing his voice. "When the outbreak started, I had to go the first few months or so alone. Then I ran into these guys," he says, pointing a finger to Lori. "I guess I'm just more of a people person. I don't think I would have made it this far by myself."

"Are you always on the move? Or do you have somewhere to go?"

Lori shakes her head. "We decided it would be worth heading to the CDC. It was as much of a dead end as anywhere else. We had a place on a farm for a little while, but there was..." She and Glenn look at each other for a moment, before letting their eyes drop. "An incident."

I decide not to press. There's no need to push these people to learn their unhappy memories when I'll be leaving soon anyway. The quiet soon turns awkward, and I can't stand it.

"Hey, mind if I use the bathroom?" I ask.

"Yeah, use the RV," Lori replies.

I jump up and swiftly walk away, leaving them alone.

As I make my way towards the Winnebago, I wonder what they could have done to be kicked out of somewhere. Sure, most people around nowadays where not the most forgiving, or the most hospitable in the first place, but still. It would have had to be something extreme to be pushed away from a safehaven. But even so, it's none of my buisness, and it doesn't affect me.

They're all very nice. I got lucky. If someone else had found me, I might not be in such a pleasant situation. But no, I won the attention of a small-town police officer, his family, and a group of friendly surviviors.

A harsh blow against my side makes me stumble. I whip my head around. "Hey!"

A figure turns his head over his heavily muscled shoulder. "Watch it," he snaps. I only catch his face for a moment, but what I do see, are a sharp, accusing pair of pale blue eyes and a scornful glare. From the bloodied crossbow hung heavily over the back of his shoulder, and the string of mangled squirrels dangling from his hand, I can only guess that this is the infamous Daryl. I try to recreate some form of a comeback in my baffled mind, but nothing seems to fabricate. But it doesn't matter anyway, because soon, he's turned away, stomping furthur into camp.

"Asshole," I mutter to myself. I jump into the RV and slam the door behind me.


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE WALKING DEAD.**

**Just a quick note to say thank you for the reviews so far. Honestly, I was actually quite worried about writing for this particular fandom. Everyone seems so tight with each other, and I felt like the new kid. But your reviews make me smile so much. You're all lovely, really. I do apologise for any spelling errors, but I tried to get this chapter out before the weekend, and things are a little chaotic at the moment, me moving and all. Thanks very much for reading!**

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><p>Later, after the campfire had been lit and the meat had been cooked, I find myself sitting in the ring of survivors, knawing on squirrel. It's not the first time I've tried it, and it's definitely better than the multitude of old leftover canned goods I've been living off. Even if I had hated it, my attention was elsewhere. On the people around me.<p>

Rick sits between Lori and Carl, making small talk with his son, who beams up at him happily. Anyone could see that they were next to best friends. If I had ever had a father such as Rick, then maybe my life would have turned out a little better. Lori sits beside them, wordless. She's nice enough, a little torn perhaps, but who isn't nowadays? But it was nothing less than a miracle, the fact that they were sticking together the way they were.

Shane sits not too far away, his gun lying loyally by his side. I don't know what to think about him. There's a certain air around him, making him seem more tense than he probably is. He's almost like a ticking clock, waiting to go off. I have the feeling he could be dangerous if he wanted to be.

Dale and Andrea sit together, talking in hushed voices. They might be related, I can't tell. They certainly seem to care about each other enough. Carol sits beside them, keeping her eyes down, eating quietly. She's quiet. I mean, some people are shy and all, but this woman is abormally solitary. And I get the feeling that it's not just because of a shy disposition. Glenn and T-Dog are sitting together, chatting away like two old friends.

I can't even see that Daryl guy anywhere.

"Right y'all," Shane says, breaking the friendly atmosphere. Conversations fall into silence and heads turn towards him. He shifts himself on the log. "I think we should discuss what we do next."

Rick frowns and nods towards the campfire. "Don't you think that's a little heavy for dinner? Why don't we let everyone eat in peace?"

"We should leave out tomorrow," Shane continues, speaking as if Rick had never said a word. Rick lets his head fall, his eyes flickering to the burning fire.

"Where do you suggest we go?" I hear Andrea say beside me.

Shane shrugs in return. "I've been set on Fort Benning for a long time."

"Fort Benning's gone."

We all look up. Glenn sits there, a look that almost resembles shame as he drops his eyes to the ground and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

It's a moment before anyone speaks.

"...What are you sayin'?" Shane finally asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Glenn swallows, and looks at Rick momentarily. Rick gives him a small nod of encouragement.

"Well," he says, his voice quiet. "When Rick and I went to go find Hershel, one of the guys we had a run in with said that...Fort Benning's a no go."

"It's run over with walkers," Rick continues.

Walkers. That's an interesting term. I like it better than my use of the word 'zombie'. Somehow, it seems more...human. That thought only contemplates itself for a moment, because seconds after Rick has spoken, Shane stands from his seat, his eyes locked onto the other man.

"When were you plannin' on tellin' us? Huh?" he asks, bitterness lacing his voice.

"At the right time." Rick lowers his hand, motioning for his friend to calm down. "Just sit down, we'll talk about this in the-"

"No, you know what? I'm done talkin', Rick. We're done," Shane spits. He throws the meat in his hand into the fire, where it burns and fizzles against the flames. We watch in silence as he storms off, his back hunched over in anger. His shadow quickly disappears into the dark.

Rick sighs and lowers his head.

The friendly atmosphere from before didn't make a second appearance.

* * *

><p>When I wake up, I decide not to get up straight away. The inside of the RV is the safest place I've felt in a long time. It's certainly the best night's sleep I've had in a while, so getting up as soon as possible doesn't seem that great of an idea. Instead, I lay back, listening to the sounds around me.<p>

Someone's snoring. Dale? I can't tell. Either way, the soft sounds of peaceful sleep are comforting. It's not too late, the amber sun is slowly seeping in through the blinds, oozing a gentle light into the room.

I like it here. But the thought is just as persistant as the reminder itself. I have to leave soon.

Just after sunrise is the best time for me. It's when I feel most comfortable. My hunting skills are always more intact. Speaking of hunting, I give myself an idea. Before I go, I should try and catch something to give the group. These days, there is no better thank you than a decent meal.

I sit up and stretch my arms above my head. I try and be quiet, slipping from the blankets silently. I slept on the floor, the bed's taken and everyone else seems to have claimed the decent spots. Shane sleeps in his truck, T-Dog in the other. The rest sleep inside the RV.

I have everyone accounted for, except the redneck.

I slip on my boots and try and move around as silently as I can, trying not to rouse the others. But before I leave, I spot the black duffle bag on the small table. Remembering that I no longer have a decent weapon, I give myself the permission necessary to borrow a hunting rifle. Nobody wakes as I sneak out of the Winnebago, gently shutting the door behind me.

Mornings are nice. And I hate to say it, but since things went downhill, the world seems a lot quieter. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes it's a bad thing, but right now, as the rising sunis peaking over the horizon, and the sounds of distant wildlife echo through the trees, there is something undeniably peaceful.

I slip past the cars undetected, and quickly into the thick brush of trees.

I try and formulate a plan in my head as I move. Honestly, I have no clue. Most of my survival has been based on being in the right place at the right time. Moving from town to town, hoping to find some confirmation that wherever I'm headed is the right place. The trick is to try and avoid bigger towns at all cost. The bigger the town, the more chance you'll run into looters or gangs. Then it's game over.

Obviously, when the whole thing hit, people went crazy. It's actually pretty funny, people have no clue what to do. The big stores were the first to go. People started looting TV's, laptops, even going for the cash machines. Don't people know anything? Perhaps it was just a lifetime of seeing the occasional zombie movie, or even just the fact that I was alone (and therefore, a lot calmer), but I went straight to the hunting store. Loaded up with everything I could. I stayed in the city for a while, just getting out in time for the big show. 24 hours later, and I would be dead.

Of course that doesn't help me now. I have no guns. No knives. Except anything that I will probably steal from these people, I've got nothing.

The grass and dried leaves crunch beneath my feet. I've walked for about ten minutes before I catch onto something. I catch sight of a large creature through the trees.

Bingo.

Slowly, and silently, I raise the rifle to take aim. The deer knows nothing, simply strutting around and nipping at the grass below. If I get this right, it'll be a good shot. I inhale, before steadying my hand and pulling the trigger.

The shot is quick, but echoes like a bitch, and for a moment I panic. It might attract walkers, and I was stupid enough not to scan the area. I freeze, and try to listen past the heavy thump of the deer's body hitting the ground. But there is nothing else, I would hear a walker (not zombie, I remind myself) from a fair enough distance to get away in time.

I pull the strap of the gun over my shoulder and begin to walk over. It's a big kill, enough to feed these people for a few days. I can't help but be proud. As I move toward the animal, I hear a crunch. My head snaps up towards a thick view of bushes. _Shit, _I think, before swinging the rifle back under my arm.

There's a sound of shuffling, before I see a figure creep out from the hiding spot.

Just my luck. It's that Daryl guy, again.

I don't lower my gun, because he has the nerve to point that damn crossbow at me. His eyes are narrowed, and his face hasn't changed from that angry scowl I last saw him in.

I frown towards him, not appreciating the way his arrow is pointing directly at me. "I could have shot you."

It's the first time I've actually began a conversation with this guy. He doesn't move, doesn't even flinch from his animalistic stance.

"That goes both ways," he mutters, his voice low under his breath.

After a moment, I slowly lower my weapon. I try not to seem annoyed when he doesn't do the same, but it bothers me. If I get shot, it's not going to be by him.

"Can you stop pointing that thing at me? I'm not a-"

He cuts me off. "You ain't no walker." His sharp eyes narrow from behind his weapon. "But that don't mean I have to trust ya'."

"Fair point," I reply. "In that case, I'll just take this and go."

I step forward, and reach out to grasp my hands around the neck of the deer. I give it a pull, but there's a loud thud. I lift my head, and see a large, dirty boot sitting on the deer's shoulders, pinning it to the ground. I look up, and quirk an eyebrow at his pissed expression.

"That's ma' deer," he growls.

"What? Screw you, I shot it," I snap.

He forces himself to exhale, before placing his crossbow beside him on the ground. He reaches down and turns the deer's neck to the side. I stare down, dumb-founded. Sticking out of the neck, is in fact, an arrow. The same one that matches his set. It's close to impossible, but it's there.

I could have sworn that I shot at it first. I never even heard him. Either I'm loosing my skills, or he's the best fucking hunter I've ever seen. Technically, I should surrender at this point.

But I don't. I'm the one who's leaving, and it was my idea to bring something back. Besides, the way he's sending me an expectant get-your-hands-off-my-deer look is irritating.

I do not remove my hand. I know this type of smug bastard. If I was leaving, I wasn't going to go without having made my mark on his tough-guy exterior.

"You best let go," he mutters dangerously.

"I don't see your name on it," I snap back. A little immature perhaps, but effective none the less.

His eyes narrow ever so slightly, the muscles in his jaw tightening under his irritance. "I shot it down. Go get yer' own."

I manage to muster a challenging glare back at him. "Not a chance in hell."

We both freeze under the burning sun, just waiting for the other to surrender. I will not budge. There is no way this asshole is going to take credit for my doing. I will not now, nor ever, let him win.

His eyes (which I notice, are a piercing shade of blue) narrow deeply. "Yer' a subborn bitch, 'aint ya?" he challenges.

"Please," I scoff. "This is me being reasonable."

"Who the hell are ya', anyway?" he spits. "Jus' get lost and leave us be."

"I will," I reply. "As soon as I take back _my _deer."

I honestly can't tell whether he's impressed, or angered further by my defences. After a moment, he shakes his head. "Believe me girl, you don't wanna' make this messy."

"You wouldn't hit a lady."

"You ain't no lady."

I frown at him. He glares right back, before his eyes flicker past me. They widen slightly, before he yells out, "Walker!"

I know what that means. I jump back, land on the ground, and reach for the gun still tightened around my shoulder, ready to fire.

But there's nothing.

Just after I realise that there is no sign of anything behind me, and that my heart is beating 50 times faster than normal, I snap my head around.

He's standing there, his grimey hands wrapped around the neck of **my **kill. He's staring down at me, a corner of his lips upturned in an almost-smirk. It pisses me off to levels that I haven't felt in a long time. I let myself get fooled by _this guy_?

"You son of a bitch!" I threaten. "Give me my deer!"

He pauses for a moment, before lifting his head and watching me. "You're gonna' have ta' beg."

I push myself from the ground, refusing to look at him. "Sorry." I brush the dirt away from my jeans. "I don't beg for rednecks."

When I look up, he gives a shrug, and mumbles, "Whatever."

Before I know it, I see my deer being dragged carelessly across the ground, and I have no choice but to follow Daryl Dixon wordlessly back to camp.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead.**

**Thanks for all the reviews and comments, guys. I didn't expect to get this up until the end of the week, so I'm pretty happy. Please enjoy, and don't hesitate to let me know what you think!**

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><p>When we arrive back at camp, the whole journey back of doing and saying nothing has tired me out. Daryl stomps ahead of me, several paces away. I almost have a hard time keeping up, but manage to stumble through the thick mess of trees and forest like a pro. He drags the deer behind him, occasionally kicking the back of it's head with his heavy boot. I know he's doing it just to piss me off.<p>

As we trudge through the last of the path, the clearing leads out to the familiar campsite, where others have woken, and progress is already starting to take place. Rick and his family are sitting by the fire, heads down and nibbling on what looks like stale pieces of bread. Carol and T-Dog sit opposite, also eating their so called 'breakfast' with somewhat grim faces.

I hang behind as Daryl drags the animal over, and catches the attention of the others. Eyes light up as they catch sight of "his" deer.

I expect him to brag about the kill. Hell, I expect him to jump up and down and stick his tongue out at me, taunting me with his trickery. But instead, he simply walks up to the campfire, keeps his eyes on the ground, and lets it drop down carelessly. Nobody thanks him, but Rick tries to send him a small nod. I'm not sure if the redneck even sees it, because his head is kept down, avoiding conversation. He skulks off, disappearing around the corner, and into the RV.

Standing around makes me feel like an outcast, so I walk around the members of the campfire, and walk around to the side of the truck. Glenn is sitting on top of one, studying a map of sorts. I place the gun I still have on the back, before pushing myself up and taking a seat next to him on the roof. He jumps slightly with the rock of the unsteady truck, but gathers himself and offers me a polite smile.

"Good night's sleep?" he asks.

"Oh yeah. Best in a long time."

He smiles and adjusts his cap over his eyes, already becoming blinded by the slow rising heat. "Yeah. Losing sleep is a big negative aspect of the current zombie predicament." His eyes drop bag down to his map, and I see that small marks have been made over several areas. Mainly, big red X's. I assume that to mean a no-go area. There seem to be quite a lot of them.

I look back down toward the camp, and see that Shane and Andrea have joined around the site, both sitting a little away from the others, cleaning out a pair of guns. Dale sits on the top of the RV, keeping watch out towards the roads. I notice that Daryl hasn't returned from his venture inside the camper.

"He doesn't socialize much, does he?" I ask absent-mindedly.

Glenn looks up. "Who?"

"Dixon."

He seems to understand right away who I mean by saying that. He chuckles slightly, before shaking his head. "Not really. He had a brother, Merle. He was a lot worse."

I shrug. "Runs in the family."

"Probably." He's silent for a moment, before admitting quietly, "We handcuffed him to a roof. In the City."

I look toward him, not sure if I heard him correctly. But he's sitting there, staring at me with a close to blank face. I watch him for a moment, before quirking an eyebrow.

"Is that something you should be proud of?" I ask, sounding like an unhappy parent.

He shrugs, but a look crosses his face. It's almost a wince, almost a twitch. Glenn's easy to read, I think. He's ashamed. Whether or not he wants to admit it, he's a good guy. The type of person that's not 100% alright with leaving someone for dead. "He wasn't the most pleasant of people. Besides," He leans over, and points his finger to his head. "I'm pretty sure he wasn't fully _there _most of the time, if you get what I mean."

"Still," I say, feeling a slight frown appearing. "That's his brother. No wonder he's not wearing flowers in his hair and singing folk songs. How would you feel?"

"Yeah, I know. But for a while there..." His eyes drop for a moment, and his face twists into a grimace. "I probably shouldn't even be the one to tell you this. You know Carol?" I nod. "She lost her kid daughter, Sophia, a few days ago. We were caught by a herd of walkers, and she ran. Lost her for a couple of days in the woods. During that time...I guess you could say Daryl played a little better with others. He organised search parties, went out every night looking for her. For a Dixon, he was surprisingly involved."

"What happened?"

He looks up again, his eyes dark. "Well, the farm we were at...our host had a barn full of walkers. Thought they were sick. But Shane kinda' lost it one day, opened the barn, and bang," He lifts his fingers into the shape of a gun, and flicking it upwards. "Killed all the walkers."

"But Sophia?"

"She was in the barn," he says softly. His head drops again. "We couldn't find her in time."

I reach forward and gently place my hand on his shoulder. It's probably of no comfort now, but still. "I'm sorry, Glenn."

"Shit happens," he replies, a slight bitterness in his voice.

"Daryl was probably upset when you found her. Putting all that work into finding her, you know?"

"Yeah," he says with a nod. "It's weird though. You wouldn't have thought that he was someone to go looking for a lost kid. Makes you wonder whether he would have done it for one of us."

My eyes drift to the door of the RV, and I think of the dirty redneck who called bluff on me just to win over a deer. One that he didn't even take pride in giving to the group. "I guess we'll never know."

"I guess so."

We're both silent for a moment, and I listen to the sound of quiet chatter from the camp a little distance away. After a while, I remember what I'm supposed to be doing, and it sure as hell isn't sitting on top of this truck all day. I swing my legs over the side, and walk to the back to grab the gun.

"It was nice meeting you, Glenn," I call up to him.

His head pokes out from above me, a baffled look crossing his face. "You're leaving?"

"Well...yeah."

He actually takes the time to jump down himself, before asking, "How come?"

I shrug. "I work best on my own. This isn't my group, anyway."

He tilts his head slightly, his eyebrows furrowing. "You'll be careful?"

"Sure. And by the way?" I reach for the gun, and with one hand, point the barrel casually toward his chest. "I'm gonna take this." I poke him with the end slightly. "And you're not going to tell. Understand?"

It's funny, because he actually looks nervous. Like I would should him. He swallows quietly, before looking up and giving a small smile. "Wouldn't dream of it." He waits until I lower the weapon, before pointing past the truck. "You're not gonna say goodbye?"

I shrug and shake my head. "Not really my scene." Slinging the rifle over my shoulder, I give him one last smile. "Hey, maybe I'll see you on the other side." I slip him a wink, and turn to walk away.

"Bye," I hear him say from behind me.

As I walk, I don't look back. The only time I do turn my head, is to see one last glimpse of the mass of cars as I walk into the horizon of the road, seeing only a blur of colour on an otherwise clear landscape.

* * *

><p>Walking under the blistering sun for what seems like hours, really puts things into perspective.<p>

First of all, I wish that I'd chosen a more portable gun, rather an this large rifle that I have to sling over my shoulder. Secondly, I wish I'd had the sense to sneak a bottle of water as well.

But there's one thing that I think about more than anything else, and that's Carol. I don't know her well, and probably never will, but her loss is heartbreaking. I never knew her girl, (What was her name... Sophie? Sophia?), but either way, that's nothing a child or a mother should ever have to go through. What's worse, was that the little girl spent her last few hours alone, and probably scared out of her mind. But finding her in a barn...shit, it's amazing that the group is still in as much tact as they are.

I think about what it must have felt like, to be Rick's boy Carl, right then. Right when they found her. It's painful to even think about something like that. Or even worse, what it meant to be Carol. Hoping to find your child, only to see her one last time as one of those _things. _Even Daryl, that deer stealing bastard, must have felt some type of pain. From what Glenn told me, he seemed to be into the idea of finding her. Perhaps he thought they would. I have no idea how he had any connection to that kid, but the fact that they were all searching for her says that there was a certain hope. Shit, no wonder he's a little intense.

I don't even know what I meant back there. Telling Glenn that perhaps I'd meet them on the other side. The other side? I have no idea. Maybe I was thinking about someplace safe, like a refugee center, or an army base. Maybe I thought that through some wierd and unbelievely lucky chance, I'd see them there. If I ever got to there, wherever 'there' was. But then again, I could have just been talking about the other side. You know, that place after you die? The supposed heaven, if there was one.

A rumble in my stomach diverts my thoughts. It's times like this when I wonder if I'll ever let myself give up.

I hear something behind me. It's nothing like a walker. No, that's a distinct noise. This is more like...an engine?

I turn my head and sigh. It's one of their trucks. They've tracked me down. Looking forward again, I keep walking. The car comes closer and closer, until it pulls up beside me, keeping a slow speed to match mine.

One of the windows open, and a head pokes through. Rick.

"You leavin' without sayin' goodbye?" he asks.

"I'm not good with them."

There's a pause. "You took one of our guns," he says plainly, sounding much more like the police officer he is.

"I needed it," I reply.

I hear him chuckle lightly from the truck. "You could have just asked."

"In my experience, asking doesn't get you far these days."

"That's true." He stops talking for a moment, following me slowly for a minute or so, before asking, "Lyla, can we stop for a minute?"

I slow my pace, coming to a stop, and turning to the truck. "Sure."

After cutting the engine, the driver door opens and he steps out. He shuts the door behind him, and crosses his arms over his chest, watching me. I stand still, waiting.

Neither of us say anything, until he kicks his boot against the dry ground. "I know you shot that deer," he says. Seeing my questioning look, he answers, "I saw the bullet hole. You're a good shot."

"Thanks."

"We need another decent hunter," he says gently. He turns his eyes to the road ahead, before taking a step forward. "Now, don't tell them I said this, but some of the group can't shoot for shit. Another person to help defend ourselves would be awful useful."

It takes me a minute to realise what he's saying.

"Are you asking me to tag along?" I ask, mirroring his movement and folding my arms over my chest.

He shrugs. "I'm askin' you to consider it."

"I don't know. I'm more of a travel alone type person."

He speaks with a nod. "I understand. But really, who can be picky these days, huh?"

I sigh. "Your group is happy where they are. They don't want another person."

He's quiet for a moment, before reaching up and scratching the back of his head. "I can only assume that someone told you about what we've been through."

I drop my eyes, trying to avoid all thoughts of the little girl walker. "Yeah."

"So you know that sticking together is an important choice."

"You would really trust a stranger to come into your camp?"

His eyes darken for the slightest of moments. "No. I wouldn't. But I hardly think that you'd try and take us down."

I shake my head. "I wouldn't. I'm not like those people."

"Well, then what are you waitin' on?"

"I doubt the others would be as keen as you are to keep me."

"Well, we talked about it. Shane's alright with it if your earn your keep. Carl wouldn't stop trying to persuade us to keep you. Glenn and Lori, too. Everyone's pretty happy with the idea."

I don't know what to say. Sticking with myself seems like the more realistic option. It's what I've done since the beginning. Getting with people messes you up. Getting into emotional ties is the biggest risk when you live in a place like this.

Rick, seeing the conflict in my eyes, leans forward and drops his voice. "Think about it," he almost whispers. "You would have someplace to sleep everynight. Food, water, your own gun...what disadvantages are there?"

I get the feeling that Rick's trying desperately to keep things together. Trying to protect a certain law and order about things. It's so tempting, because really, there are no disadvantages. But if I stayed, the complexity issues of my situation would grow bigger. Possibly out of my control.

But there's a look in his eyes that prove to me that my trust would not be wasted. He's serious about taking me on. And well...if the camp wants me...

"Sounds like a good deal."

...Then who am I to say no?

His eyes light up for a brief moment. "Is that a yes?"

I shrug, and share with him a small smile. "Yeah. Why not?"

He grins, and I follow him as he retreats back to the truck. As I walk around to the passenger side, he calls to me from over the top. "Well, I know a kid back at camp who'll be pleased."

I slide in and shake my head. "This doesn't make me your official babysitter, alright?"

"Deal," he agrees with a chuckle.

He starts the engine, and before I know it, he's turning the truck around, and we're headed straight back to where we started. It's weird. There's almost a little jump in my stomach, and I think it's excitement. No matter what, I know I'll have a bed to sleep in tonight.

"There's just a few things to go over before it's official," I hear him say from beside me.

I turn my head and send him a puzzling look. "Oh yeah? Enlighten me."

"Well, for starters..." He turns and gives me a smirk. "You have to pass basic training."


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead.**

**Hey everyone! Sorry about the long wait, but I've been in the process of relocating, so things are a little hectic on my end. Hope you enjoy, and thanks for holding on!**

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><p><strong>B<strong>**ang. **

The sharp ping against the tin can and the small thump of it hitting the ground informs me that I've had another spot on hit. With Rick on one side of me, and Shane on the other, I resist the urge to look cocky. Rick turns and grins smugly.

"Told you she was a good shot," he says to Shane with a light chuckle. He reaches down and picks up another empty can, and throws it up, catching it swiftly as it falls back down. He glances at me, a challenging look in his eyes. "Let's see how you hold up against a moving target."

In seconds, his arm flicks up, and the object is flying up into the air. I swing the gun up, pulling the trigger as it gets into line of fire. Another sharp, metallic ping echoes through the air, and I step back, satisfied.

"Shit," I hear Shane mutter beside me. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

I shrug. "I learn quickly."

"Well," Rick says, kicking a foot against the dry ground. "I think trips outta' camp and huntin' are where she's best placed." He looks at me again. "What do you think?"

I smile. "Perfect."

"Well, that's enough for today. Ain't no point in wastin' bullets."

I turn to offer the gun back to Shane, who seems to be in charge of the weaponry, but he's already gone, his back turned to us as he stalks back into the trees. I can't quite place him, but there's something about him that I can't trust fully.

I turn to Rick and hold out the gun, only he looks at it, before holding his hand out in decline. "Keep it. You've earned it."

I glance down and smile. In precarious situations like this, it's sometimes the smallest things that can draw the line between death and survival. A new gun is hardly a little thing, and I find myself practically overwhelmed with gratitude.

"Thanks, Rick." I can't help but grin widely as I tuck the gun in the back of my jeans.

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><p>The camp is a welcomed sight when we return.<p>

Carl is sitting by the edge of the RV, his hat just falling over his eyes, shading them from the burning sun. Boredom is etched into his face and I decide to go over and make conversation.

I walk over and slide down the side of the Winnebago, settling on the ground with my knees brought up to my chest. "Hey, kid." I flick the brim of his hat.

He looks up and gives me a friendly smile. "You can call me Carl, you know. Since you're staying, and all."

"Right, sorry."

"I've got something for you," he says. He turns and reaches under one of the wheels of the RV, dragging out a small black holder. "I found these." He looks around for a moment, before unclasping the bag and drawing it open. Inside are several gleaming, deadly-looking knives. He looks up at me. "Thought you might want one."

I look down at the knives. They'd certainly make good use. Shining in the sun, it seems like a complete treasure chest of weaponry. I shake my head. "They're yours."

"I'm not really supposed to have them. But Dad says I should, for protection." He reaches down and gently grasps one of the smaller, lethal knives, with jagged edges and a sharp point. "Most of the others already have their own, but I want you to have this one." He holds it out carefully towards me.

I can't deny that the gesture is a big one. Reaching forward, I take the knife and feel the wieght in my hand. It's a strange feeling, knowing that this kid wants to share out his only stash with a person he met no less than a day ago. I can only pin it down to the fact that he trusts me. There's no denying that mistrust in a time like this can get you killed, but the bright look in his eyes gives me a strange sense of hope that I haven't felt in a long time. He doesn't even know how much this means, but as they say; ignorance is bliss. I give him a small nod. "Thank you."

I sit forward and tuck the knife in my back pocket. It just might save my life later on.

Watching Carl pack away the rest, and tuck it back in it's hiding place, I smile at him. "I bet you do a lot to keep this camp safe, huh?"

A corner of his lips upturn and he shakes his head. "I try. Mom says that I should be more careful. I'm not allowed to take my gun out most of the time."

"Well, that's a good point. You don't want to be getting yourself shot."

"I already was shot. Look," He lifts up the front of his shirt, revealing a large scar stretching from his belly to his heart. "It was an accident."

"Did it hurt?"

He shakes his head and drops his shirt again. "I don't really remember. It hurt when I woke up, though."

A voice calls from the other side of camp. "Carl!"

Carl gives me a small smile, before pushing himself up from the ground and dusting the dirt from his hands. "I gotta' go," he beams, before running toward Lori.

* * *

><p>Sitting around the campfire later on seems strange. Knowing that I own a permanent residence here from now on seems to have taken attention from the others. I'm offered a space between Glenn and Andrea, and a decent hunk of deer, and a little more of input to the conversation. The group is so tight with each other, I can only guess that after the group decision, they've accepted me a little more.<p>

For the most part, I sit and eat, listening to the little snippets of conversation. It's only until everyone was full that I realised who was missing.

I nudge Glenn, who's poking at the fire with a long stick, keeping the ambers moving. "Where's Dixon?"

He looks at me for a moment, silent. After a second, he shrugs, and nods his head towards the roof of the RV. "He doesn't eat with us anymore," he explains. "He normally keeps watch during dinner."

I go quiet for a moment. Why does Dixon seem to separate himself from the group? The few encounters I've had with him have been short and snappy. But if I'm going to stay, then I can't go making enemies within the group. Especially the more skilled ones that might save my ass one day.

I reach forward and rip a chunk of deer off with a fork, placing it on a plate.

Glenn watches me curiously. "What're you doing?"

I step over the log, and make my way towards the RV. "Making a peace offering."

I feel eyes on the back of me as I walk towards the Winnebago. It's no hard struggle trying to climb up the ladder and balance a plate at the same time. I've had to deal with much worse. When I reach the roof, I jump up and feel the cool air rush past.

There's just the faint amber light from the fire below flickering to the top. I can see the outline of Daryl's body sitting on the far edge of the RV, keeping a watch to the outer roads. I move across the top, gently placing the plate down beside him.

"Hey."

He says nothing, simply keeping his hands tightly grasped around the handle of his crossbow.

I nudge the plate with the toe of my boot slightly. "I brought this for you. It only seems fair that you eat what you catch, right? Well…you didn't actually catch it, but still." The silence causes me to lose the whole idea of building bridges with this guy. "Anyway, I just thought you'd be hungry."

As I turn to leave, a rough voice mutters, "You ain't left yet."

I freeze and turn, seeing his head turned over his shoulder to give me a cold stare. "Huh?"

"You ain't left yet," he repeated. "Why?"

"Didn't hear? I'm kind of sticking around now."

He scoffed under his breath and turned his head again. "Great."

I frown and twist my lips into a grimace. "Geez, thanks for the warm welcome," I mumble in return. He says nothing, and I take a moment to catch glimpse of his eyes furrowing as they stare down at the road ahead. I shrug and turn away, knowing that this was going nowhere. "Listen, don't worry yourself. I won't spoil your whole 'sensitive loner' thing you got going on."

I turn on my heel and begin to walk away, feeling that this peace mission was a lost cause.

"Hold up."

Stopping, I exhale deeply, knowing that whatever type of shit that's about to come out of his mouth is not going to make me feel any better. Turning slowly, I see that he's now standing up, and making his way towards me. He stops a few feet away from me, and I can see under the moonlight that his face is etched into a deep frown, his icy eyes glaring into my dark brown ones. This guy sure knows how to be intimidating when he wants to be.

"You listen to me good," he says, his voice dark. "I don't care if you stay here or not. Hell, you can fuckin' run the god damn fan club for all I care, but you understand one thing." As he leans forward, I find myself stepping back. "If I ever find that you're here to hurt my crew…I won't hesitate to kill ya'." His eyes flicker downwards, suddenly darkening with some probably very distinct memories of harder times. It makes him look younger, the venerability that's suddenly been exposed, even if just a small bit. "These poor bastards have been through enough," he mutters quietly.

I swallow, and begin to understand. Or at least I hope I do. For some bizarre, and totally unexpected reason, Daryl Dixon actually cares about the others. He doesn't trust me, because he thinks that I could hurt what they have created. That's completely unexpected from a character like _him. _Part of me wants to talk to him about that, ask him for something more. But the lost look that makes it's way into his eyes causes me to nod, and quietly mumble. "Understood."


	8. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE WALKING DEAD.**

**I'm glad I finished this. I'm going away tomorrow, so my other story won't be updated until I get back. But in the meantime, please enjoy, and reviews are always appreciated. (And for those who are curious, yes there will be eventual M-rated content, if you catch my drift).**

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><p>The morning comes quickly. Again, I'm awake before anyone else, a result of habit that I've had for years. I enjoy it, really. The gentle sounds of snores from within the RV is comforting. But I barely stay, because I know that there will be someone else up before me. I slip a new pair of boots on, which I am incredibly grateful for. I remind myself to thank Andrea again. Along with my gun, I slip out of the Winnebago, undetected, the sunrise is just peaking over the horizon of the highway where we are parked. The orange tainted light peaking over gives me view of a figure by one of the trucks, rifling through the gun bag.<p>

I walk over and lean against the side of the truck, eyeing up the bag. Daryl stands above it. He pauses for a moment, waiting for me to speak, before quickly continuing his work, obviously desperate to leave the camp for his hunt.

"Morning," I say, and accompany it with a small smile.

He does nothing but mumble something inaudible in reply.

I watch him wordlessly for a few moments. He does nothing, probably hoping that I'll just give up and leave him be, but after a few moments, he turns to me and runs me over with his eyes, before huffing, "Don't you have somethin' better to do?"

I try and force my face into something that's slightly similar to a smile, while reaching over and grabbing a few more shells and tucking them into my pocket. "I'm coming with you."

He doesn't stop loading his arrows, but he does pause momentarily, to frown at the ground. "Huh?"

"I've been put on hunting duty."

He lets out a small snort, sounding less than impressed. He steps back, and swings his crossbow over his shoulder, staring down at me with condescending eyes. "I don't need any help. I can do it myself. Always have before you came along."

I shrug, and tuck my gun in the back of my jeans. I'm not prepared to lose this battle. "Well, you never know."

His eyes drift behind me to the sleeping camp. They narrow slightly for a moment, probably thinking that out of all the people in the group, he'd rather have anyone else tag along with him but me. But as I wait for a decline, he sighs heavily and squints at me through the sun. "Fine, just…try not to talk so much, alright?"

I can't help but feel slightly proud. Makes my job easier if we can both work and play together without fighting. "Sure."

He turns swiftly and begins trudging away towards the trees, his heavy boots hitting the hard, dusty ground as he walks. I have to jog for a few seconds just to match his pace, but as I reach his side, he moves quicker, trying to keep a decent distance between us.

"I'm Lyla, by the way," I say.

He doesn't even look my way as he mutters, "Yeah, I know."

By the time the sun is high in the sky, we must've walked for a few miles without even saying a word to each other. It's not that it's awkward or anything, because I've never exactly been a social wizard, but I feel like I should end this trip with actually having accomplished more than catching a few squirrels. Befriending the redneck, for example.

It gets hot quickly, and soon, we're both hot and tired from the hike. But it's a silent agreement between us that we keep going, only stopping when there's a chance to catch something, or to catch our breaths. I don't want to be the one returning to camp with nothing to eat. Because for some bizarre reason, they're relying on the grumpy hick and the stranger to supply food.

When we reach a break in the trees, I take a moment to look around. The heavy heat makes the leave hang dryly, shading us over just enough to keep us cool for a moment. Although the weather is intensely hot now, in the winter, it's a different story. Food will be harder to catch, it'll be harder to sleep, and harder to defend from walkers. It doesn't matter whether you're with people or not. And I don't plan on keeping with this group forever.

It suddenly comes to mind that Daryl has stopped walking as well, as I can no longer hear his footsteps.

When I turn around, he's kneeling on the ground, his hands tracing the dust on the ground. I stop and watch for a moment. Anyone with half a brain can tell that he's a tracker. He carries a hard look on his face as he studies the ground. His eyes narrow with concentration, echoing the dark shadows around his face as his lips twist in thought.

Walking over quietly, I dare to break his train of thought. "Find something?"

He rises from the ground slowly, dusting his hand off on his pants, before replying quietly. "Footprints."

"Walker?"

"Most likely," he mumbled. His eyes flicker up and study the mass of trees around us. His hand grips the hold on his crossbow firmly, just waiting for a chance to be used in action. "Keep an eye out."

He begins walking again, and I look down to where he was just kneeling. As far as I can see, there are a few scuffs along the dirt. I was seriously hoping not to run into any walkers today. Guess my plan for an easy trip wouldn't go directly to plan.

I jog ahead again, catching up with Daryl along a muddy creek. The ground is softer here, and the sound of the ripples in the water are peaceful. Daryl's still walking ahead, at a pace that's making me tired to keep up with.

I decide to start up a conversation, to waste time if nothing else. "So how long have you been travelling with the group for?" I call ahead.

"Couple a' months, I guess," he answers, still not quite turning his back to talk to me properly. The whole talking-to-shoulders thing is starting to get old. "Why?"

I shrug behind him, rolling my eyes at his questioning toward the basic conversation maker. "Just making small-talk," I reply tiredly.

He looks over his shoulder for a moment, seeing that I'm several paces behind him. He slows slightly, allowing me to catch up. "You always been on yer' own?"

I give a dry laugh. "Yeah. I'm not normally a…people person."

When I catch up, we stop at the bottom of a large hill, using the chance to catch our breaths. He gives me a look, one of his eyebrows quirked. "Yeah, I figured."

"Well, you're not too much of a charmer yourself," I retort back. "So shut it."

He rolls his eyes, then looks down, kicking his shoe against the foot of a tree. "Wow, that's real lady-like," he says, his voice heavy with sarcasm. I decide to leave it, taking the moment to let my eyes wonder to the steep walk ahead.

These woods are surrounded with danger. You could get lost easily, at the blink of an eye. You'd be off course and headed miles away from where you originally meant to go. In a sense, I'm lucky. I grew up in a place not far from where there was a shit load of land, covered in forests as big as this one. I remember getting lost a fair few times. But years of getting used to living like that prepared me for such things. I could survive if I needed to.

Unwillingly, my mind again wonders to the lost little girl. Getting lost by herself, surrounded by walkers, hungry, and scared out of her mind. She probably thought she'd be found. Or maybe she knew there was no hope.

Did Daryl think that when he was looking for her?

As if reading my mind, as my eyes averted to the redneck in question, he looked toward me and caught my eyes. There is definitely some distant glaze in his eyes. Although I can't work out what's causing it. Sadness? Pain? I barely know him well enough to try and pursue the thought, and he looks away too quickly for me to think about it further.

He quickly kicks his foot once more before nodding his head towards the hill. "Come on, girl. Don't keep me waitin' all day long for ya'."

It doesn't even cross my mind to correct his little nickname. Instead, I follow him up, finding it harder than he does due to my shorter legs. I'm not tiny, but he's taller than me easily.

I wait until we reach the halfway mark before finding the breath to say, "I heard about Carol's little girl." Small pants escape as I stop on the slope. Ahead of me, Daryl stops dead in his tracks. He doesn't turn around, so I lean against the truck of a tree. "I'm sorry," I say, my voice quiet, out of respect, if not out of sympathy.

There's a silence for a few moments, and nothing can be heard except the sound of distant wildlife, creating their sounds of life. That, and the sound of both our breaths. Eventually, he turns on his heel and looks straight back at me. That's when I regret saying what I did. He doesn't have the same sadness that I thought I saw. Instead, he's _glaring at me._ His jaw is tight and his eyes are sharp, staring at me with a danger that I didn't see any trace of a moment ago. "What's it to you?" he asks, his voice deep and dark, as if I'd just called him a horrible name instead of expressing my sympathy. "You didn't know 'er."

I don't know how to respond to that. In the end, I shrug and tilt my head slightly, and reply softly, "It's just sad."

The silence returns as he continues to glare deeply at me. When he speaks, all threat has suddenly disappeared from his voice. "Sophia was just a kid," he says quietly, his voice holding a softness that I didn't expect. "Carol has nothin' now." He looks at me, a look of almost disgust tracing his features. "That's a little more than _sad_, don't ya' think?"

I can't say anything after that. Instead, I just watch him as he shakes his head.

"When we lose someone, everyone just kinda' stops," he says. His eyes flicker to the ground now, as if he weren't even talking to me anymore. Just talking for the hell for it. "Like everythin's stuck in one place. That's dangerous. That keeps happenin', and the group will be vulnerable." A corner of his mouth twitches, and I find myself fascinated by what's happening. "We all gotta' survive."

"That's why you tried to find her?" I don't even know I'm speaking until the sound of my voice carries between us.

He still doesn't look up from the ground. His eyes only narrow again, as if he hadn't heard what I'd said. But I know he did. "Huh?"

"Glenn said that you were looking for her. Is that why?"

As his head slowly raises, I'm surprised to see that all traces of anger and sorrow have disappeared from his face. He looks at me blankly, before sighing heavily and shaking his head. A small smirk appears at the corner of his lips. "I guess everyone's been talkin' about me behind ma' back, then?"

I suddenly realise what it looks like I've said. I've put myself in a dangerous position with a touchy man, who seems to unleash himself at every chance he gets. "It's just-"

"Look I don't need you tryin' ta' figure me out, alright?" He suddenly speaks, his voice holding a more venomous tone. "It ain't yer' business."

I hold my hands up in an effort to try and calm things down between us. "Okay, just cool it."

He steps forward slightly, his voice raising. "I don't need ya' around botherin' me the whole time, got it?"

"Alright!" I say quickly, frowning at him. "Shit, forget I said anything."

"Already done," he spits, before turning away and stomping ahead of me toward the top of the hill. I sigh heavily and jog behind him.

By the time we reach the top, my legs are burning, and my feet hurt. But I've never been one to complain without means, so I keep my mouth shut. Daryl continues to stomp ahead, and doesn't stop until he reaches a fallen tree, and sits on the trunk in silence. I stand at the top of the slope watching, waiting for him to recover his minor anger outbreak. For a while, everything seems quiet, and I appreciate the peace of it all. But it doesn't last.

I see it before I hear it.

It's disgusting. The rotten mould that covers the skin of the walker is a pale grey, sinking in around the eyes and face. The left half of it's cheek, is gone, ripped away by the fabrications of the skin, which now hang in a mess of blood and gore. It's eyes are pale and wild, suddenly alive with hunger. Decaying, yellow teeth are ripping and snarling, accompanied with growls and hisses unlike anything I've heard in a while.

It suddenly occurs to me that Daryl hasn't seen it yet.

But it has seen Daryl.

As it stumbles across the trunk of a tree, it's long, pale arms reach out, stingy fingernails ready to grasp the back of his neck.

"Hey!" I yell, barely waiting for my voice to carry out before I take off running. I get that feeling again. The feeling where you never realised you could ever run so fast in your life before you really need to get away from something. Or in this case, towards something. I'm there in seconds, wrapping my arms around the decayed waist of the walker and tackling it towards the ground with a hard _**thump. **_A sharp pain shoots up my wrist as I fall in a twisted way, but that's the least of my problems right now. As I fall, the thick stench of death hits me. And in that split second, (that's all it takes), I find myself on my back, the heavy weight of the rotting corpse on me, with the snarling teeth and hungry growls inches away from my face.

Our friend is very hungry, it seems.

I think that there's no way to lift this son of a bitch away from me, but just as I'm seconds away from having a large chunk of flesh ripped out of me, a sharp metallic ping and the sound of crunching bone echoes through the air. I shut my eyes and feel the splatter of blood against my skin. Then silence. As I open my eyes again, the corpse is being lifted off me, and I see Dixon standing above us.

It's weird. His eyes are darkened in the hurry of the kill, almost shining with adrenaline. His lips are parted and panting with heavy breaths, while his hand grips the handle of a bloody knife tightly. The sight of him is frightening, and, well... if I'm honest, slightly _hot_. If you're into that sort of thing.

I quickly lose the thought as he looks down.

"Y'alright?" he asks, giving the leg of the walker a small shove with his boot.

I push myself up, my muscles beginning to sore from the sudden attack. I nod, wordlessly, looking down at the walker. It's limp body is now laying face down, a gaping wound in the back of it's skull from the knife. It's a man. Just bigger than Daryl, with a large build. Probably a football player or something back in the day. I often try not to think about those things, because it makes you feel guilty. And you can't feel guilty when you're trying to survive. That compromises everything.

"Hey Dixon?" I ask, my breaths short. He looks over, eyebrow raised in question. I look back, eyes like stone. "I'll watch your back if you watch mine."

I barely catch it, but a corner of his lips pull up as he looks at me with a small smirk. It's the only thing I've seen that's close to an actual smile. He looks at the walker once more, before moving to get his crossbow. "Let's go."

I can't help but feel a little smug as we continue our quest to hunt_**.**_


	9. Chapter 9

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE WALKING DEAD.**

**Thanks very much for holding on. And I will most likely get the next chapter for my other story up soon, so keep an eye out for that. Much love for all the reviews so far- you guys are the best. Enjoy this chapter, and leave a review if you have the time! :)**

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><p>We return to the camp later, feeling moderately let-down as we only seem to have collected two squirrel carcasses and an old looking rabbit. Daryl didn't seem too keen on the idea of bringing it back in the first place, but decided to give into the group's starvation that might take place later. Right now, it's a matter of supply, not delicacy. As we trudge back onto the small roadside campsite, Carol is the first to find us. I'm surprised to see a shining concern in her eyes as she spots us. Then I realise that we're still tinted with walker blood and dirt; not exactly a comforting sight to the others. She jogs up and meets us before one of us can even get a chance to sit down. "Are you two alright?"<p>

"Yeah, we took down a walker," I say, trying to keep a calm tone of voice. The last thing Rick would want publicised is the presence of walkers around camp. "Nothing to worry about." I try and offer her something of a smile, but it's lost as she casts her eyes around Daryl's bloody hand.

She quickly reaches forward. "There's blood-"

"S' fine," Daryl says dismissively, jerking away from her reach. "Leave it alone."

Carol flinches away just slightly, before letting her eyes drop to the ground. I watch in curiosity as she shifts on her feet for a few moments, before turning and gliding away to Lori and the others.

I can't help it. A small tingle of anger runs through my spine at Daryl. Someone as sweet and timid as Carol should not have their kindness and care dismissed like that. As I turn my attention to him to say something, I stop. He's watching after Carol, wearing a softer look. It doesn't take a genius to see that there's guilt at what he just did, no matter how small it is, or how well he's trying to conceal it.

The anger that I felt somehow just disappears.

"Daryl! Lyla!" I hear from down the road.

I see Rick, along with Shane, Andrea and Glenn, circled around Shane's truck. Rick's waving at us from across the way.

"Hey, come here!" he calls to us.

I cast a glance at Daryl, before walking toward the truck where they are gathered. Daryl walks behind me, his heavy feet beating a distinguished rhythm. When we get up there, I see that Glenn and Andrea are also standing around the hood, and that they are all staring at Glenn's map.

"Some extra input would be useful," Rick says.

"What're you doing?" I ask, squeezing my way between Andrea and Glenn to get a closer view. Daryl walks around the side to just peak over Rick's shoulder. I can't help but notice that he still stands several steps away from us.

Rick's face is etched into a deep frown, the dark, tired lines in his face aging him a few years. "Deciding where to move on from here."

Shane speaks from the other side, reaching up and scratching the back of his neck. "We can't stay here for long. Not after what happened during the fish fry."

I turn to Glenn. "What happened during the fish fry?"

"We were ambushed by walkers. Lost a lot of our group."

I hear Andrea from beside me. "My sister, Amy. She was…" Her voice trails off, and she doesn't have to finish for me to know what fate her sister must have encountered. Her grey eyes flicker back down to the map, clouded with a trace of sorrow. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

Shane breaks the silence from the other side, his voice somewhat snappy. "It's no matter. Just shows that staying in the open like this is a death sentence." He looks at Rick, his eyes hard. "I still vote Fort Benning."

Rick sighs heavily, and it seems as though this is a conversation that has taken place more than once. "Shane-" He begins, his voice laced with exasperation.

Shane cuts him off. "I know, I know, those guys said that the place was overrun. But they were nobodies, Rick. They could have been messin' with ya' head."

"You think it's worth risking the group for that?" Rick asks suddenly, staring at Shane with an equally challenging stare. "Just to prove if you may or may not be right?"

The silence is thick with tension. Rick and Shane stare at each other for a few moments, caught in each others eyes with a silent argument, filled with challenges. _Daring _each other to push the other one closer to the edge. Something tells me that Shane is the type of guy that takes joy in over shadowing others with opinion.

Everyone is grateful when Andrea breaks the silence, reaching forward to point toward the map. "Well we haven't exactly got a lot of choice," she says, her voice tired. "This doesn't cover a lot of land."

Glenn shrugs beside me. "It's the only map we have."

Daryl speaks from behind Rick. "What 'bout further into the hills?" He says, waving his hand further past us into the distance, where large mountain-like hills reach and dip over the land.

Rick shakes his head almost instantly. "We'd still be overexposed." He turns around, and watches the rest of the camp as they work. "We need security. Someplace that we could make safe."

"Somewhere with water and food supplies," Shane finally speaks again.

Everyone goes quiet for a moment. Those basic things that we once had; shelter, food, water…they don't exist anymore. Not without a price. The quiet is almost painful as they realise that they're only chasing a pipe dream, that place where they'd be safe. There are no safe places anymore.

I let my eyes wonder down to the map, casting my sight over the different areas. The bright greens that describe the large lands, and the small blue dips that resemble the lakes and creeks that scatter the area. It's then that something catches my eye. Something important. Something that might just save our asses. But only if I'm right.

And only if Shane doesn't blow a hole in me for wrecking his 'Fort Benning' dream.

I begin speaking before I even realise it, the words tumbling out of my lips without a second thought. "Somewhere like this?" I reach forward and place my finger on the map. Almost instantly, everyone leans forward and frowns simultaneously at the unfamiliar markings.

It's a moment before anyone speaks, but Glenn finally mumbles in confusion. "What is it?"

"It looks like a housing estate," I say, waving my finger over a spot in the middle of the map. "See the red dotted lines? Those are the property boundaries. This whole area here must be a large place."

They go quiet again. For a minute, I completely regret piping up like that. I think they're going to deny the idea completely, shoot me down and make me feel like an idiot. But instead, Rick steps back and reaches his hand up to scratch his chin, his face heavy with thought.

"That sounds risky. Surely the place would be run down with walkers?"

I shake my head. "Not necessarily. Big places like these are often bricked up the whole way around. There's normally only one or two ways in or out. Big gates or something like that." I look up and meet his face filled with consideration. "And they normally have backup water and heat generators on site, so we'd be good for a long time."

From the corner of my eye, I see Daryl look over at me, his lips pursed, looking, dare I say it, impressed. "Sounds like a good deal," he says, catching my eyes. "Nice one, girlie."

"Woah, hold up," Shane speaks up, breaking the somewhat happier mood with a voice filled with doubt. "A big place all blocked in like that? What if we got run over?"

"We just have to find a way to keep everything out," Rick replies hastily, almost seeming desperate not to ruin what seems like a fully formed plan. "Shouldn't be too hard."

"We should take a vote," Glenn says. "Just to see what everyone else thinks."

Rick gives him a small smile, before patting his shoulder lightly. "That's a good idea."

We all turn and make our way over to the burned out campfire, where the others are sat, minding their own business, and keeping to themselves. I can't help but notice the interesting dynamics. They seem perfectly content in being alone, keeping their individual identities and privacy where they please, but still keeping together when they need to be. Perhaps it wasn't always this way.

Rick clears his throat and speaks out across the campsite. "Everyone? Can I call you over for a sec?"

Lori and Carl break away from their quiet conversation. T-Dog places pauses his work in checking through the remaining shells the camp has in supply. Dale pokes his head from the RV door, and I see Carol in the corner, lifting her head slightly to hear.

Pausing for a moment, Rick begins to speak in a strong, leading voice. "Obviously it's been decided that we can't stay here. We've been thinking about where to go for a while now. There have been ideas." He turns his head over his shoulder slightly, catching his friend's hard eyes. There's something not right between them, and I know I'm not the only one who senses it. The air is too thick with tension and silent dares to be ignored. "Shane still votes for Fort Benning," Rick continues, his voice almost sounding meek with the distaste for the idea. "Lyla saw that on the map, there's a large housing estate not too far from here. There's boundaries to keep out walkers, and water supply. Glenn wanted to take it to a vote."

Everyone is silent. Eyes cast toward each other, creating quiet agreements, uncertainties, and opinions. Nobody says a word until Dale, from the door of the RV, raises his hand slowly and respectfully.

"I have a question regarding those choices," he says, his voice gentle.

Rick gives him a nod. "Go ahead."

Dale steps out slightly, adjusting the brim of his hat in the sunlight. "The group is tired of packing up and moving so often." He gestures to the rest of the camp. "We're already getting comfortable. Isn't it possible just to stay here?"

"We thought about that," Rick says reassuringly. "It just seems like too much of a risk. We're overly exposed. We need someplace more secure."

"Let's make the choice," Shane cuts in, his voice tired with frustration. Delay such as this must be itchy for a man like him. Someone who wants to make fast choices. His choices, more specifically. "All for Fort Benning, raise your hands."

His hand instantly rises, and he waits for others to agree. Nobody moves for several moments, and after a while, a small huff of annoyance rises from his chest as he lets his arm fall again.

"All for the estate, raise your hands."

Rick's hand goes up, followed by me, but nothing else follows. For a second, I'm worried that nobody else will go for my idea, and humiliation will follow suit. I look behind me, and catch eyes with Daryl.

His hand is raised into the air.

I don't know how to react, but the corner of my lips twitch in gratitude, and he gives me the smallest of nods. Behind him, Glenn and Andrea both raise their hands.

"Sounds great," I hear from the camp. Looking over, I see Carl beaming up at me with his toothy smile, his hand raised high. I can't help but feel a relief wash through me, and perhaps a little smugness. Rick's hand claps the back of my shoulder gently.

He gives me an appreciative smile, and I can see that there is relief in his eyes. I'm not sure whether it's because there is now a possibility of safety for his family and crew, or that it's taken Shane down the way he needed. "Then it's settled. We move in the morning."

The lighter atmosphere that follows the decision is pleasant. But it reminds me of something important. It reminds me that I'm earning my place, whether I plan on staying for long or not.


	10. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE WALKING DEAD.**

**I literally cannot apologise enough for the huge gap in updating. I have been up to my ass in exams, but I will have a lot more free time now for writing. Please forgive me, and enjoy this chapter.**

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><p>The next morning, things move surprisingly quickly. The sun is still low in the sky, bleeding out amber waves over the horizon as the group gathers their things. I do what I can to help, carrying heavy things, loading away the supplies, even though Shane won't let me touch the guns. Something tells me he doesn't exactly trust me just yet. But things get done quickly, and we're ready to leave within a couple of hours.<p>

"Alright everyone." Rick says, clapping his hands together. "Keep behind each other at all times. Make sure your radios are on, and don't get left behind. Honk if there are any problems." He points behind him to his family, along with Glenn and Dale. "We'll be leading in the RV. Since T-Dog can't drive, Daryl, you'll take his truck. Andrea, you take Carol in the Cherokee." He looks behind him briefly, catching Lori's glance. Every look between those two seems like a private conversation. One that I can't even begin to figure out. "It'll be a long ride, so make sure you have everything." He turns and begins to walk towards the RV, already starting a conversation with Dale.

It's obvious that everybody's feeling pretty anxious about this one.

I look down and see that Carl has materialized by my side, wearing his dad's hat as usual, with the same friendly grin beaming in his cheeks. "You'll ride with us, right?" he asks.

I smile, and think of how strange it is that the kid seems to like me more than anyone else does. The idea of spending the several hours journey cramped in the boiling RV with several others does not sound appealing. And considering that Glenn and Dale will both be trying to get us there at once, I sense that it will not be the most harmonious ride. But how can I deny Carl? "Sure."

As if out of nowhere, I hear a thick, southern drawl behind me. "Sorry kid, she's ridin' with me." Daryl saunters past and gives Carl a half-hearted glare, letting it slip into a small smirk when he think's nobody's looking. There's no way that he means it, but it's probably just a Dixon thing. Making sure that there's still respect being given towards him.

Either way, it works a charm on the naïve kid, and Carl drops his head quickly as the smile falls from his face. I can't help but find this slightly amusing, and reach forward to ruffle the top of his dark brown hair. "Maybe another time, huh?"

He gives me a quick nod, a grin lightly returning. "Okay."

"See you there."

I watch as he turns and jogs back to the RV, where they're finishing loading and getting ready to go. Then it hits me.

I now have to ride with Daryl Dixon.

Then I look over, and see the man in question over by Carol's car, wearing a careless blank expression as Shane seems to bark orders at him whilst he loads bags onto the back. There's something strange about the image, and I can't help but stare as he keeps reaching down to pick up another heavy load. As he straightens himself, he locks eyes with the police officer, giving him a hardened stare.

There definitely is something rather hot about the dark scowl on his face.

I push the thought quickly from my mind. Of course, he's not all that bad looking. Well…he's not bad looking at all, really. Not now, when I'm watching him throw bags onto the back of the Cherokee, his arms tensing and flexing as he lifts the heavy weights. It's all too easy to imagine how easy it would be for him to lift someone up and pin them onto the back of the truck…

_Jesus christ, _I quickly think. _Calm yourself down, girl._

Quickly, I slip inside and fasten my seat belt, knowing full well that Daryl may be the speedy driver that I assume. Behind me, I can hear him throw something heavy in the back, before walking around and getting in himself, shutting the door with a powerful slam.

As soon as he settles in and waits for the other cars to start up, he starts the engine and starts driving, taking place dutifully behind the others.

I wait a few minutes until we're on the main road until I say anything. "I guess this means I've earned your approval."

He glances over, an eyebrow raised in question. "Huh?"

"Letting me hunt, riding with you… Does this mean we're buddies?" I'm tempted to reach over and nudge him with my elbow in a faux friendly gesture, but with him staring out the window with a distant look on his face, I feel like that would be a bad move.

He gives a small snort in return. "Don't push yer' luck, girl," he warns. "I let you ride with me so I can keep an eye on ya'. Ain't never said anythin' 'bout bein' buddies."

"Geez. You're harsh with the words."

"It get's ya' places that nice words don't."

"Let me know if you want me to take the wheel for a while."

"I'm good," he snapped, suddenly taking on a more aggressive tone.

I roll my eyes and throw my hands up slightly, letting them fall back down to my lap. "Jesus, Dixon. Are you always this snappy?" I ask, unable to hide the irritation in my voice. We'd been in the car for less than an hour and already he's pissed me off with his crazy mood swings.

"Uh, yeah," he answers, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

Sinking back into my seat, I sigh heavily and rub the corners of my eyes, thinking about how the RV doesn't seem so bad now. "Can I ask why?"

"Because the dead are walking and people are stupid."

It's a fairly straight-forward reply, and amazingly, it makes total sense. Very un-Daryl like, to me. Suddenly, I can understand how that Daryl, being a hunter all his life, would have been taking total shit from people that had nowhere near the type of expertise he had.

I get it. I mean, I have no idea why, but I know how to think of things now. It's very simple to aim and shoot at something that's a treat to your life, but for all I know, the drama levels of this group have been at an all time high. It's the same reason I'd not stuck to a group permanently.

I hear him shift in his seat beside me. "Alright, ma' turn," he says, somewhat defensively. "How'd ya' know how to read that map?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you seem more like a GPS reader than a map reader." He looks over, with a small smirk on the corner of his lips. "If ya' get what I'm sayin'."

"Sounds like an insult."

"Maybe it is."

"It's a boring story," I reply with sigh. "I guess I just used to do that as a kid. Force of habit, you know?"

His face twists into a frown at the road. "Weird thing to do as a kid, if ya' ask me."

"Well, nobody asked you," I snap back. "What about you? I'm guessing a lot of your time was spent hunting squirrels and causing trouble."

"Somethin' like that." There's a silence for a moment, and I wait for him to fill in the gap with a story, or another insult…anything really, because I can't stand the idea of riding in silence for hours. Finally, he speaks. "So where ya' from anyway? You ain't lived here yer' whole life."

"How can you tell?"

He gives a small shrug. "Lotsa' ways."

"Virginia."

"Why move to Atlanta? Not much worth to be 'round here."

Sighing, I bring up my hands and rub at my eyes with my palms, already feeling the strain beginning to weed it's way into the small confinement of the metal walls. "I just needed to get away."

"From?"

"Lots of things, alright?" I half snap back at him.

"Geez," he replies. The infamous Dixon brother is probably not used to people being as snappy with him as I am.

"You're being very intrusive," I return, trying to revert my voice back to it's calmer tone. "What about you? Lived here your whole life?"

"Yep." His reply is curt.

"No desire to leave?"

"Nope."

"How come?"

He gives another shrug, his eyes never shifting from the road. "Never really thought 'bout it," he says, his voice taking on a deeper consideration behind his words. "Things just always kinda' stayed in one place."

The silence returns again, and I decide to leave it. Maybe talking isn't the best idea. Not when there's two clashing personalities in a small car for god knows how long. It's funny, because I've met people like Daryl before. Opinionated, stubborn, and always trying to get their way. But with him, there seems to be some silent justification between the group. Like he's allowed to be this way. I suppose there's something I don't know.

And besides, I'm not going to try and council the guy in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

"One more question," Daryl says, breaking the quiet once more. I look over, expectant, but he takes a moment before he speaks to consider his words. "You lose anybody? From a walker or something' like that?"

I actually have to think about this. Sure, I've been with the odd group passing through, kind of like this one. But I've never stuck around long enough to get attached. I've seen people die, if that's what he means, but I don't think that's quite what he's asking.

Did I ever lose anybody? Anybody that was mine?

Glancing out the window, I give a quiet, but firm, "No."

"How come?"

"I never really had anybody to lose." I look over again, a faint smile pulling at my lips. "A good move on my part, huh?"

One this one occasion, Daryl doesn't say a word.

* * *

><p>The hours are slow and hot. Although I know that as a group we are going as fast as we can; an attempt to get there before nightfall, everything seems to go painfully slow.<p>

T-Dog's truck as no AC. As the sun rises higher and higher into the sky, the situation does not lighten. I'm used to the heat, I've lived here long enough. But this is torture. And since the walker epidemic hit, with most power down and tracking your way though the outskirts of the city, the hot suns of the past seem like an autumn breeze. Even with the windows rolled down, it's like death warmed up. And I know I'm not the only one who feels it, because Glenn tuned into the radio not half an hour ago, only to complain about the lack of water. Shane forced him off the line with a stern word. Besides, Daryl next to me keeps huffing and sighing and shifting to himself, and I can practically feel the irritation radiating from his body.

After what seems like several weeks, I bring my hand up to fan myself and mumble, "I'm dying in here."

"It ain't gonna be like this for long," he replies, almost instantly. " 'S gonna get colder. Then harder."

He makes a stunning point, that I haven't actually thought about yet. What happens when the Summer passes and things get colder. That means three things.

Less food. Less shelter. Harder to travel.

Oh, and the most important fact of all.

Walkers don't get cold.

A shiver makes it's way down my spine that I manage to cover up rather well. I grimace into the window. "Best not to think about it yet."

Just then, Rick's voice comes through. _"Just the next road down, guys." _Then there's a brief pause, before we can hear Glenn's voice cheering in the background, and Rick's relieved sigh. _"…It's perfect."_

He thinks I won't notice, but I definitely feel Daryl speed up the truck to catch up. I'm a little anxious myself to see what we've found. What I will be held responsible for. We round the corner, and see the others pulling up to the side of the road, outside a big set of gates. Stretching as far as the eye can see, surrounded by a forest of greenery, is the plushest housing estate I've ever seen.

But Rick Grimes and I obviously have a different idea of 'perfect', because as soon as I look at the place, I instantly regret bringing up the option of coming at all.


	11. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE WALKING DEAD.**

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><p>I have no idea where else this group has been. All I know of is the farm. Other than that, I have no idea where else they have been hauled up. Probably horrible places, only places that people would dare go out of desperation. This to them, might be the ideal place for sanctuary. I, on the other hand, have been lots of different places. The city, smaller towns, so many places that I can't even remember the name of. I know the difference between safe places, unsafe places, and…well, insanely creepy places.<p>

Large, rusted iron gates are built highly over the entrance, a large chain binding them together. The first few houses I can see are huge, with large front lawns and a garage built for three cars minimum. Back in the day, it would've been paradise. Now, it seems less than so. The bricks are dusty and old, and the lawns have turned into a dark brown colour. The roads into the estate are bare. Deathly empty. There's no sign of life at all. Maybe it's a good thing, but it certainly doesn't seem comforting. Not in the least.

As the car pulls behind the others and the engine cuts, Daryl glances over and gives me a small warning look. Something that says if something happens, I'm going to be the one to blame entirely. I try not to think about it too much, and cast my eyes out the window. Outside, the others are stepping out. For the most part, they look happy. Rick's looking at the sight with a relieved smile on his face, his arm slinking around Lori. He says something and she smiles. Sure, all they see it gates and boundaries.

But then again, maybe I'm just thinking like this for no reason. The whole thing just seems a little too Amityville for me.

I step out of the car and make my way slowly to the others, fully aware of the gun tucked away at my waist. Before I can reach the adults, Carl finds his way to me.

He marches up to my side and can hardly contain his excitement. "Hey Lyla! Isn't this great?" He asks, his cheeks beaming.

"Yeah, great," I say, sounding less than convincing. I cast my eyes over to the haunting image ahead of us. "A little Scooby-Doo, though. Right?"

He looks confused, and his head tilts to the side slightly. "Scooby-Doo?"

Kids these days. It's all video games and pop music. I withhold the temptation to rant about the importance of classics to the kid. "Never mind."

I hear Rick talking from the front. "Tonight we stay together. Tomorrow we'll go in a little more and search the houses."

We grab our stuff and get ready to enter our new suburban home. Shane lifts his legs and harshly kicks the high iron gates, breaking the old metal lock easily. As the gates swing open, the group edges inwards. Rick's at the front, his gun swung up in front of him, Shane also. I find that my hand is inching towards my own in preparation. We choose the first house, and the door doesn't need to be kicked open. It's already swung open, the latches rusty from being unused for a long time.

Somebody left in a hurry.

Once inside, we all stand in the front hall, aimless and wondering. Like lost children. Everyone's still for a moment, waiting. For a noise or a walker or something, anything. But after several moments, nothing happens. It's satisfactory for now. The sound of bags dropping to the ground echo the hall.

Rick turns around and gestures to the others. "Wait here. We'll do a check of the house."

Carl steps forward, his face etched into one of confidence. "I'll come too."

Rick gives him a small smile, patting his shoulder lightly. "No, you stay with your Mom." He looks up and nods his head towards Daryl. "Let's go."

We watch the backs of Rick, Shane and Daryl disappear down the hair, their guns raised. The rest of the group returns to their statue stances, listening for the sound of gunshots. Nothing.

It's Lori who speaks first, her hands still tightly clutching Carl's shoulders. "We should check for food."

She and the others move down the hallway and through a pair of double doors, which I assume to be the kitchen. The only people who remain are Glenn and I. He gives me a nod and begins edging towards the door, peaking out the window to the ghostly front yard.

I decide to have a small check around myself. There seems to be a lot of ground to cover. So I move to the first door I see and press gingerly on the wood with my foot.

The smell of rotting flesh hits me as soon as I open the door. It's the stench of a rotting corpse that has been in decay for months at least. It's enough to make me stumble back, though I should be used to it by now. My eyes fall to the plush couch in the centre of the room, where a body is lying, being worn down to nothing but yellow skin and bones. In it's hand, a gun. In it's head, a hole. I suppose that's one less problem we have to worry about. Although, the stained blood on the furniture is going to be harder to clean off.

There's no other sound other than the distant humming of hungry flies until I hear feet behind me. I pray to god that it's not Carl.

"Euh." I hear Glenn say behind me. I turn around and see his hand up against his nose, his mouth twisted in grimace. He gives me a disgusted look.

We both step in cautiously, treading around the pool of dark blood that has gathered. With the end of his rifle, Glenn pokes the body curiously.

"Poor guy must have worked out what was coming long before anyone else did," he says.

We both look at each other with understanding. Nobody needs to see this.

I let out a heavy sigh, and begin rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. "Help me move this thing."

Stepping forward, I reach out and grasp the moulding fabric of the corpse, and pull it slowly off the couch. I nod towards the back door.

"Get the door, Glenn."

Glenn runs over and unlocks the back, before jogging back and grimly lifting the legs of the decayed body. Treading slowly over to the door, we both cast the body outside and take a breath. It'll take a little longer for the stench to go away. I wipe the dirt and dried blood from my hands onto my jeans and wait for Glenn to lock the door again.

He turns to me, his face still twisted into disgust. "I'll never get used to this."

It's a split second later that the sound of a scream echoes through the walls.


	12. Chapter 12

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE WALKING DEAD.**

**I am really incredibly sorry for the long delay on updates. This short chapter can't even begin to make up for it, but hopefully the next chapter might.**

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><p>Before I know it, I'm running down the hall and toward the kitchen, Glenn's feet pounding quickly behind mine.<p>

When we burst through the door, the floor is wet. Soaking. On the ground in a bloody heap is Carol, though quickly I can tell that the blood is not hers. Before her, a walker is laying on the ground, hissing and clawing towards her. It's barely a second later that we both slip and land heavily on the ground into a thick pool of blood. A sharp pain shoots through my side, and I can quickly feel the warm liquid sinking through my clothing. It takes all I have not to cry out in disgust. But I move forward and wrap my arms around Carol's shoulders, yanking her out of the walker's path and into Lori's arms.

"Feet! Feet!" I hear Glenn shout frantically.

Looking ahead, I quickly see the problem. Inches away from the end of my boots is the snapping, decayed jaw of a walker, clawing it's way through the river of blood to knaw at it's newest food source. Me.

I inch myself away quickly, hands slipping on the wet floorboards. Bringing my foot up, I kick it hard against it's head, hearing a satisfying crunch. Just seconds later, a knife is brought down into the weak skull of the walker, and it falls back down with a thud. I scramble up from the ground and look down. Carl is standing over the walker, his small hand wrapped tightly around the knife. His eyes are bright with the excitement of the kill, and as his eyes catch mine, he quickly pulls it back out, as if he'd been caught in a terrible act.

"Oh my god," I hear Lori breath as she pulls Carl from the body.

I can now see what she means. Looking down, the walker is really only half of a body. If that. Everything up to the waist seems to have been chewed to nothing, leaving a pattern of guts and torn skin that hang loosely. I hear the sound of vomit from behind me, but I have no idea who it belongs to.

The sound of heavy feet enters the room, and by the click of guns that follow, it's clear that the rest of the group have decided to join. It's only then that I realise that I'm still clinging onto Carol's wrist.

"What happened?" Rick's voice appears behind me, full of fear and panic. Looking at that amound of blood would give one the impression that someone had died right there and then.

"It was on the ground," Lori explained quietly. "We only just saw it. Gleen and Lyla ran in- Carol nearly- Carl-" Her voice broke off into a panicked breath, not far from a sob. As Rick comforted her, Shane stepped in front of me and kicked the walker with his shoe.

"Let's get this bastard outta' here." He and Andrea grimly began to move it, while Dale kneeled down beside Carol, who was stone cold still with wide eyes.

I heard another voice then. "You good?" Daryl's thick tone was quieter as he sat behind me.

Looking at Carol, I grabbed her hand in the best form of reassurance I could. "She's fine. A little shaken." I turned around, wanting to assure him furthur that his friend was okay. It was only when I found his sharp blue eyes staring into mine that I realised he was talking to _me._

"You good?" he repeats, eyes flickering down momentarily to the dark stains of blood against my clothing.

"Uh, yeah." I release Carol's wrist and quickly push myself up from the floor. It's hard to get a grip on the surface without slipping. He's still standing just feet away from me, eyes on me like a hawk as I turn around. "Carl," I say, moving away from the pool of red liquid. "You crazy little guy, I believe you just saved my life. Nice hit."

Carl is standing inches away from Rick, holding his knife rather gingerly in his hand. He looks up and lets a grin of pride spread across his face. "Thanks."

Lori snaps her head down towards her son, her eyes sharp and stern. "Carl!" she snaps. "Where did you get that knife?"

Carl instantly shrinks back. "I, uh-"

"I said he should have them," Rick cuts in, seeing the deadly glare in Lori's eyes. "For protection, Lori."

"No. No way. I don't want my son running around with weapons like some kind of hunter. He isn't."

"But Mom-"

"Lori, he just killed a walker," I say, stepping into the conversation without invitation. I can tell by the pointed glare that Lori shoots me that I'm not making a friend out of this. But hell, what kid wants to put up with this? "He just saved my life, and probably Carol's."

"He's responsible enough," Rick adds. "What harm can it do to make sure he is safe?"

Lori looks between Rick and Carl, her teeth practically grinding in frustration. "Fine," she spits out. "But nothing good can come of it in the long run." She turns her back and stomps out of the back door where Shane and Andrea had disappeared with the body. I look over and see Carl's deflated stare into the ground. Poor guy. Can't be easy, growing up like this. Especially with a mother like _that. _

I hear Rick's tired sigh. "Glenn, Lyla, go change. The rest of the place is clear."


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead**

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><p>By the time I've finished redressing, the sun has lowered into the sky and traced the evening a dark purple. I don't feel comfortable in Andrea's borrowed clothes. If I remember correctly, the plain t-shirt and jeans belong to her sister. Really, during the end of the world, a dead man's property is more important than ever. I feel itchy and strange and I don't like the idea of spending the evening down with a hormonal Lori and a tormented group.<p>

I sneak from across one of the bedrooms, quietly opening the window and climbing out. An easy task for me. After swinging myself up onto the roof, I scoot up against the chimney. If I'm quiet, I can just hear the distant mumblings of the group down below.

This whole family dynamic thing doesn't fit well with me. Today was a prime example. Testy mothers. Cops with obvious anger problems when they don't get their way. I make a mental note to myself to plan later when I will break away from these people. Their kindness was unexpected and played a major part in my survival, but there's no other reason to stay any longer than I should.

Besides. Debts are a bitch to pay.

I sigh heavily and let my head fall into my hands. Sometimes I can't help but wonder if there's even a point in me going on. Whether giving up could be considered an option. I have no family to speak of anymore, and I can contribute nothing to a new world. If there is some form of fate or destiny, then there better be a fucking point. Because I can't believe for even a second that I would still be living for a reason. Me being here still just seems like luck.

But when these thoughts come I just have to snap them back out, bury them down, anything that keeps them at bay. Otherwise, anything I would have done in order to survive would be for shit. Nothing would matter. And if I'm going to go, then it should be fighting. Something I've done my entire life. Second nature.

"Rough day?" a southern drawl says behind me.

I turn around and see Daryl sitting just a few feet away from me. The guy's as silent as night if he's been here as long as I have.

"You don't know the half of it," I say, dropping my eyes to the bottle of amber liquid by his side.

He gives a small smirk and stands, the bottle dangling at the end of his arm. He walks over and sits by my side, about an arm's length away.

"Start talkin'."

"Well. I had a several hour ride with a guy at the crack of dawn."

An eyebrow raises. "Yeah? What's he like?"

"A real jackass. Then I had to deal with two dead people today. And a whole mess of blood."

"Well, shit." Wordlessly, he holds out his arm and offers the bottle. His head falls down to his knees.

I grab it and unscrew the top, swallowing down a mouthful of the throat-stinging drink. "Where'd you get this?"

"Downstairs," he mutters into his knees. Slowly, he lifted his head and ran his palm over his face quickly. "Snuck it up with me. I ain't holdin' up down there with the others."

"Choice move."

We both fall silent for a moment, and I listen carefully to the sounds below. Gentle mumbles and voices. Apart from that, all is quiet. It could easily be mistaken for a pre-apocalypse night, after everyone's just gone to bed and the world falls asleep. It's much more different than the nights during the rise of infections and after people started coming back. Screams of pain and cries of loss from loved ones. That was all that could be heard during the peak of all this. Part of me hates that things seem so peaceful now that most things are dead. It shouldn't be this way, but the silence is much more appreciated. It's the sound of death.

"That was real good of ya' today."

I turn my head and realise that Daryl's now talking to me. "Sorry?"

"Runnin' in and savin' Carol like that. The others just kinda' stood there."

"Oh. Well. Instinct, I guess."

He scoffed. "Yeah. Let me tell ya' somethin' about instinct. Take Shane. His instinct would be to save himself. He's a 'every man for himself' kinda' guy. Rick? His would be ta' save his family. But you, you have no relation to Carol. She ain't nothin' to you. That says a lot about a person who throws themself in line of fire for someone they don't even know."

Huh. "That's a pretty intense theory, Dixon."

"I ain't dumb. I know a little somethin' about people."

I shrug. "Well, I'm pretty sure you would do the same thing."

"Yeah," he says, his voice quiet. "What makes you think somethin' like that?"

"Because I know a little something about people too." By the way he directs his eyes toward the view ahead, it's easy to say that he's either embarrased, or completely in denial of whatever nice thoughts people might think of him. For his sake, the topic of conversation is changed quickly. "So, uh, tell me about your brother."

His eyes crinkle together. "My brother? Merle? Why you wanna hear 'bout Merle?"

"Just making conversation."

He sighs heavily and drops his head into his hands. "Uh..okay. Merle. Merle, Merle, Merle..." He looks up and presses his hands together, a dry chuckle escaping. "Well, Merle was the type'a guy to knock yer' teeth out at the slightest mess. Wouldn't let ya' call him a name or nothin'. Tough as nails, ol' Merle. He raised me, since nobody else was around most of the time."

"No Mom or Dad?"

"I thought you was askin' about Merle."

"Geez, sorry."

"Like I was sayin'. We grew up huntin'. He taught me a lot of what I know. So when things went to shit, I guess you could say we were prepared."

I look down at the bottle as I twist it between my fingers. "At least someone was." I reach up and hold it out to him, and he takes a large gulp before continuing.

"What 'bout you? You handle a gun well, a knife even better. Not many people pick that as a weekend hobby growin' up."

"You should get to know your audience," I say grimly. "I grew up on a farm. When I wasn't gutting animals, I was out in the woods."

"I guess it's a good thing that I have ya' for a partner, then."

"Perhaps." I tap my fingers among the brick of the roof before sighing. "Well, I should go. Get some sleep, Dixon. The whole brooding Redneck persona must be tiring."

"Get lost."


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead.**

**Sorry for the wait. So here's a long-ass chapter to make it up to you.**

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><p>The night passes by in a quiet, tense atmosphere. The upstairs rooms had been given to Rick and his family, Dale and Carol, and T-Dog and Andrea. Shane, Glenn and myself spread ourselves around the downstairs level in case of an attack during the night. Nobody assumed that there would be one, but Shane seemed so intent on this idea failing, that it almost seemed like he wanted to be the first one to say 'I told you so'.<p>

I settle myself in the kitchen, leaning against the oven and spreading my legs out against the back door. The rest of the house grows quiet as the hours pass, but it's hard to tell if the cause was sleep or fear. For myself, I think it may have been the latter, but the others might not have that problem. For the first time, these people feel safe. Secure. And it's on me.

So I'm not looking forward to whatever blood-thirsty event that might or might not happen.

It must be the early hours of the morning when I hear it. The quiet, hesitant footsteps that echo across the hallway. My instincts get the better of me and I quickly reach for the rifle that lays beside me. When the door opens, a figure moves toward the side and leans against the wall, sinking down to the ground in a tired haze. When I remember that walkers don't have this particular habit, I pull my hand back and fold my arms across my chest. When the figure spreads out in a territorial guard across the door, I can just catch the silhouette in the drips of moonlight that creak across the room.

My eyes are falling just as my mind manages to draw out a clear statement. I'm not sure why, but the fact that Daryl is sitting there suddenly makes the room feel a lot safer.

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><p>The next morning, just after the sun has risen, we all stand on the front lawn. Our respective weapons are loaded, and everyone is accounted for. Even Carl is standing just before me, his father's hat tipped over the side of his head.<p>

I gotta hand it to him, the kid's got style.

Rick walks back and forth, creating a steady check in his head, doing everything he can to prevent even the slightest chance of something going wrong. He'll occasionally hand out a quip of advice, such as 'Glenn, take some more ammo', or 'Dale, lessen the weight of your pack'. When he seems satisfied, he points his hand forward and begins his sermon.

"Okay. I want Daryl in charge of Group A. Andrea, T-Dog, and Carol. I'll charge Group B. Glenn, Dale, Carol, Carl, and Lori. Group A will do a clockwise patrol around the back. Any sign of trouble, come straight back here. Myself and Group B will cut straight through the middle. Shane, you and Lyla go around the other side. Check for any other exits or entrances."

Ugh. How is it that I'm stuck with Shane? Not that I have anything against the guy, he just seems like someone I would never want to talk to in the 'real world'. Not only that, but he seems like the guy to snap your neck if you utter a bad word against him. And after the whole 'Fort Benning' senario, I'm sure that I'm not top of his favourite list either.

I'm clearly not the only one who has this thought, as I can suddenly feel eyes on me. I look up, catching the eyes of Glenn and Dale. I'll bet anything that they don't particularly love the ex-officer. I can also just catch Daryl's stare. He sends a quick nod before dropping his head again, kicking the ground and pulling at the strap on his crossbow.

Rick continues. "You see walkers, you take them out quietly. More than you can handle, come straight back to base and set up fort. Keep your groups accounted for. Don't lose anyone. Alright, let's break out."

A few mumbles of words are shared between the group. The others begin moving instantly. I turn and follow Shane like a soldier, matching the heavy beats of his feet against the ground. As the voices fade and we're finally alone, I pass the time by checking the rounds in the rifle I've been handed.

The houses get no better as we pass. One in particular is nothing but a pile of charred remains burnt into the ground. Something went down in here. On the way, we check a few cars in silence. Only one or two seem to work, and we quietly take note of where they are in case of emergencies.

Our journey isn't graceful in the slightest. Shane kicks through the weak garden fences, and we pay no respect to the paved paths. We stick close to the borders of the estate, formed by large wired gates. Along the top run those springy death traps that you might see in jail. Classy.

About half an hour passes in thick silence.

A twig snaps beneath his heavy boot. I pause in the air, fingers gripping instinctively around the trigger. Shane glances over and gives a small chuckle.

"A lil' jumpy, ain't ya?" he teases.

"It's the end of the world, I have a right to be jumpy." I resume walking, not bothering to flash a glare at him. He's harmless enough. A bit of a jerk if nothing else. "We don't all have the ability to be on auto-pilot."

"Don't worry, you'll learn soon enough. It's better that way."

"How so?"

"Well, that's the thing. The big question, isn't it? Why are we still here? Is it 'cause there's something bigger for us? Or is it nothin' but dumb luck and survival."

I give a small shrug in response. "Maybe both."

"Probably. But I ain't gonna be stupid about it. You gotta' learn to leave everything behind. Find a reason to keep going. Make that your only mission." He turns to face me and slows his pace until there's only a few inches between us. I step back on instinct. "Ya' see, first thing for me? I had to save people I loved. Lori and Carl. Rick was gone, and I had to take care of them, so I did everything I could."

"What about now?" I ask quietly, thinking of the cold glances I'd seen shared between Lori and Shane.

"Still the same. I'm watchin' out for 'em. But you just gotta' remember to forget about all those complications. Those can mess you up."

"Complications? Like...people?"

"I guess so. More like emotions. See, that's where Rick and I are different. He's too controlled by what he feels. I like to go with my gut. It's quick and easy to make hard choices and better decisions."

"I guess I see your point. Like love and friendship."

"Exactly. And anger. Fear. That's a killer," he says, giving a small snort.

"Well, you can't help fear. That's a completely normal thing in our situation. It can't be controlled."

"Yeah, it can. Hold up." He presses the end of his gun against my shoulder. I quickly freeze, the cold metal feeling sharp. "Lemme tell ya' somethin. There are two kinds of people living right now. The scared and the strong. The scared ones? They let it take control. Think of it like this. There's a switch inside your brain. The one that makes you forget all that fear and uncertainty. Without those things, you can survive. Make any kind of choice. But it only works if you turn off the switch. The scared ones go first. They're the ones that become walker bait. The strong people are the people that can turn it all off and pull the trigger when needed." The conversation is quickly gowing uncomfortable. His eyes have darkened with his beliefs, like black orbs. "I know which one I am. Tell me, which one are you?"

I can feel my mouth open and close several times before I can stutter out. "I don't know-"

"You know. Maybe you're like the others, who are just to afraid to face it."

Hell, what I wouldn't give for a walker right now. Something to draw away from this topic. "I, uh-"

"Found somethin'!"

The sound of Daryl's voice so close is a relief. We must have made it to the halfway point without realising it. The crunch of leaves twitch in my ears, and I look over to see him just a few feet away. Brushing past Shane without an answer, I briskly walk over and see the others just rounding the corner. As I walk past Daryl, I realise that he's not looking at me, but at Shane, his face like stone and tight with a scowl.

"What'd you find?" I quickly ask, not wanting anything to escalate into something worse.

He doesn't reply right away, only tearing his glare away from the officer quickly to nod his head towards the other way. "Over there."

He begins walking, and I follow just a few feet away. We catch up with the rest of his group, all standing several steps away from the iron gates. Andrea's face is creased in disgust.

"Watch it," Daryl instructs the others, stepping through a gap between them. As their frames part, I see what they are all staring at.

Along the top of the barbed wire, a thin, droopy corpse hangs limply across the side. Tired, subdued groans and growls errupt from it's peeling lips.

"Okay, that is disgusting," Andrea spits. The walker seems tied up top, unable to climb over. It's hands weakly claw at the gates at a feeble attempt to escape.

Shane steps forward, looking up at the body with a twisted grimace. "Least we know they can't get over." He reaches his gun up to poke at the body. "Jeez, what a-"

Daryl's hand flies out and flings Shane's arm down. "Watch it," he scorns.

Shane steps back, his face flickering into a warning glare. "The hell, man?"

Daryl gives a small smirk, before bending down to pick up a small pebble from the dirt. With a quick flick of the wrist, the pebble is hurled toward the gate. As it hits, a sharp, metallic ping sounds, followed by a loud hum. The hum of electricity. He steps back, sending a quick glance to the other man. "You wanna fry? Go ahead," he says, his voice bitter.

Shane gives a small huff and turns his back to the group. Seconds later, the sounds of voices appear, and Rick and the others soon arrive. After inspecting the body and ramming a small blade through it's skull, Rick and Glenn test the fence themselves.

"Does it go all the way around?" Glenn asks, looking at it with uncertainty.

"Most likely," Rick replies quietly. "Let's hope the electrics run a little while longer."

"There are generators round back. We saw at least five of them up and running," Andrea says.

Rick steps back, a thoughful look playing on his features. "Let's check out the rest of the houses. Pick up any food and extra clothing or blankets you can find."

Feet soon begin to shuffle, and I hear a smaller voice from beside me. "I'll stick with you." I look down and see Carl standing timidly beside me. I send him a small nod, remembering that I owe the kid some attention. Not that I want to be babysitter, but I've gotta give in to the kid at some point.

Lori is near, hovering like a protective hawk. Her face twists into discomfort. "Carl-"

"It's okay. I'll keep an eye on him," I quickly cut in.

"I don't know-"

"I'll go with 'em," Daryl says, appearing from nowhere. He hooks his crossbow around the back of his shoulder.

Lori's tense attitude barely flickers as she watches us. Not surprising that she doesn't think the newbie and the redneck to be good babysitters. She opens her mouth to protest, but is cut off by Rick.

"Meet back at base in an hour," he says firmly. "Any longer and we'll come lookin'."

Daryl sends him and nod before turning away from us. I look down at Carl and send him a small wink. He ducks his head with a hidden smile. I can still feel Lori's watch as we begin walking. "Come on, Squirt."

* * *

><p>I roll my eyes again as I hear the non-stop rant behind me. Somehow, I have become the babysitter in our current situation. The house we choose is a mess of chaotic debris. Someone ransacked the hell out of this place. Tables lie overturned, pieces of wall spill into the hallways, making the paths difficult and dangerous. Glass shards from the windows lay cracked and broken on the ground, and the smell of neglect reaches every nook and corner. I keep hearing the thumps and heavy heaving as Carl tries to make his way through the house.<p>

"You are without a doubt, the dumbest kid I've ever met."

"Nuh-uh," Carl teases in a sing-song voice that all kids seemed to have stored in the back of their clever little brains.

"How wrong can you be?"

"Hey, I know what I'm talking about. You're the dumbass."

Treading carefully over a crooked piece of debris, my head shoots around to send a quick glare towards the younger boy. "Watch your mouth."

Carl sends Daryl a matching scowl; a look of blame. Daryl just smirks, gently kicking the back of his knee so Carl stumbles and crashes into a wall. At the sound, I turn and just catch his look of fury toward the hunter.

Daryl steps around him, his eyes staring ahead. "Better watch what you say 'round me. I'll string you up from a tree like a pinata."

"It just doesn't make sense. Superman is way better than Batman," Carl counters, giving a slight jog to keep up.

"Damn boy, you don't know what yer' sayin'."

"Superman has a whole load of powers. Batman has a belt."

"A cool as shit belt," Daryl replies in a very unfamiliar tone. I should imagine that if he ever had a real childhood, this is what he would sound like.

"And Superman has a girl."

"That's what cool 'bout the Bat. He don't need nobody but himself. Doesn't need some bitch followin' him around."

I turn around and send them both a pointed look. "Okay, cut it out." Both grow quiet and continue to walk in silence. As they pass by, I mutter aloud, "Besides, Captain America kicks ass."

Carl looks horrified at the statement, while Daryl just snorts to himself, wearing a smirk when he thinks nobody sees. He turns around and clicks his fingers toward me. I strip the backpack from my shoulders and throw it over. After catching it with one hand, he flings it into Carl's face.

"Kid, make yerself useful. Go stock up," he intructs, nodding toward the kitchen. "Canned foods only."

Carl nods, and quickly moves into the next room. His sudden energy is only a reminder that the poor kid probably never gets to do anything around here. I'd hate that more than anything. To sit around and watch as everyone does something? Do have no power over your own survival? How is it that the sudden end of the world brings back the workings of a 1950's society? I shake my head to myself. That shit sure isn't happening on my watch.

My train of thought escapes quickly as I look up and see Daryl standing in front of me, arms folded. One of his eyebrows has heightened, and he's staring at me with some sort of expectancy.

"What?"

He turns then, and resumes the hike through the house. "Have a nice little chat with Officer Shithead?" he mumbles.

A small scoff escapes me, and I can't fight a smirk as I begin a small climb over a mould-ridden chair laying amongst the mess. "Whew. Sounding a little bitter there, Dixon. Jealous?"

"Shut up," he shoots back. "Just wonderin'."

"Yeah. He's pretty intense."

"Pretty stupid, more like."

"He seems hell-bent on protecting Lori and Carl." The sound of wood crackling echoes the hall as he kicks in a door. I wait until we both enter what seems like an abandoned office until I speak again. "You notice that?"

He replies with a nod. "From the first day. Thought they were his at first."

"Even after Rick came back?" I ask, pulling open a desk drawer. A cloud of dust and god-knows what else fills the air.

"Yeah, he's a real nutjob. For a while there, I thought we were all gonna wake up with a dead Rick one day."

"He wouldn't."

"Well," He nods towards the door once more. I settle for finding a small pocket knife in a drawer and shove it in my pocket. "Dead people are up and walkin' around. You don't think someone would do somethin' bad to get what they want?"

"Shane's a good guy," I point out, keeping my eyes sharp as we enter the darker corners of the house. Wooden boards now cover the windows, some broken in, allowing streams of light to flood through.

Daryl shifts his crossbow from his shoulder and lets it hand by his side. Always prepared. "We all break sooner or later."

Something heavy collides with my foot, and I push myself to the side to avoid falling. Great freaking idea. Instead of hitting the floor, I smash against the wall. The thump it causes fills the room as my hand flies up to steady myself. A sharp pain stings my hand, and I hiss at the pain. Glass falls to the floor and shatters. My hand flies to my chest and I clutch at it, yelping as I feel another shard press into it. Fan-fuckin'-tastic.

I didn't hear him move, but another, stronger pair of hands suddenly wrap around my wrist and pull it away from me. My eyes flick upwards, and I can just see Daryl's frown through the dim light.

He pulls me away from the wall and into the small glimpses of light near the window. As he turns it over, I can see the large chunk of glass still stuck inside my palm. Actually, not large. Freaking _huge._ The deep red of blood is pooling in my hand. Not too deep, but enough to make me more pissed off than I already am. Daryl lets out a low, long whistle. "Good job, clutz."

"Screw you," I spit. He holds it open with one hand and lightly presses his thumb against the torn skin. I yank it from his grip, ignoring the wave of pain that runs up my arm. "Don't touch it!"

He looks less than impressed. "You want ma' help or not?"

"Not." The warm, sticky blood trickles down my fingers, but I don't tear away my glare. "I can do it myself when we get back."

"And how are ya' gonna deal with infection, moron?" he asks, annoyance already beginning to show in his voice. "Give it." His fingers clasp around my hand again. He turns it over a few times, processing the damage quietly. I suppose better him, who probably has experience with injuries, than anyone else. I take the time to watch his face, which is suddenly a lot more interesting than my hand. His eyes narrow and crease with thought.

"Let's do this," he mutters, reaching and grasping the end of the glass lightly between his fingers.

He's gentle. So much so that I can barely feel the extra weight pressing down on my skin. Before anything happens, he pauses, waiting until a breath escapes me. Without warning, his hand tightens around mine, and he pulls. The sharp pain is instant. Broken shards shred against my skin one after another. A hiss of 'fuck' appears, followed by a small gasp as the cuts tear and rip at my skin. My head falls and quickly lands against his shoulder as I bite down hard on my lower lip to stop anymore humilating sounds escape.

He's quick about it. The bloody glass is soon tossed to the ground. I quickly lift my head. Wordlessly, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out an old piece of cloth. He binds it around, pulling tightly at the knot with small and steady movements. When he's finished, he checks it once over again. "Y'alright?"

Being a few inches taller than me, his eyes fall to meet mine. I return to studying his features to ignore the throbbing pain that has suddenly appeared. But I find that as soon as my eyes lock onto his, it's damn near impossible to pull them away. There's something strange about his. Hidden behind shades of icy blue and cloudy grey is something much darker. Something grave that flickers through his eyes like dark tendrils. Everything is quiet but the small breaths from the both of us, seemingly ear-splitting against the silence of the room.

I'm suddenly very aware of the closed space between us. And for some reason, his hand is still touching mine. The rough skin doesn't exactly feel uncomfortable, but this is something I _really _don't want to encourage.

I gently tug my hand from his grasp and bring it up to my chest. "We should check on Carl."

He stares for just a few seconds longer, before retrieving his crossbow and brushing past me without another word. I pick up the gun that I'd dropped and fisted my good hand as I followed behind.

"Find anything?" I ask when we find Carl.

He jumps down from the kitchen counter and holds up the backpack, a proud beam spreading on his face. "Stocked up. Didn't these people eat?"

"Good job. Let's get outta here."


	15. Chapter 15

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Walking Dead.**

**I'm not even going to begin writing out an apology. It would take far too long and wouldn't even go near to describe how bad I feel. So I'm just going to shut myself up, and let you get to reading. Much love.**

* * *

><p>After we meet up with the others, get back to the house, and begin to seperate, I carry myself to the bathroom, straight to the sink.<p>

When I turn on the water, it splutters out violently, almost choking. Gingerly, I lift my hand against water brimming down, and wince when the stinging returns. My head quickly chants something along the lines of _don't be such a baby,_and I quickly begin to rinse the blood as best as I can without recognising the pain that follows.

What the fuck was that had had happened with Daryl? Those were the type of things that certain girls would squeal their hearts out over, but it only left me confused, and a little bitter. Even during the end of the world, these things were not avoidable. That awkward moment when two people who probably haven't been laid in months get a little too close. It had not been unpleasant, maybe even a little enjoyable, but this were things that were most certainly not good ideas, and things that shouldn't happen again.

There had been times when I thought about Dixon in more _creative _ways, but I'd put it down to the stress, and the presence of a perfectly attractive, strong-minded hunter. Someone who challenged me with sarcastic, insulting conversations that were the best way I knew to interact. But that was it. _Need _was the only thing I put it down to, and it'd never even get that far if I could do anything to stop it.

The water shuts off with a pained squeak of metal.

Looking up, I stare hard into my reflection and barely recognise the person who stares back. My eyes, once a dark green that resembled thick forests are now clouded. There are slight shadows beginning to appear under them, a result of the constant fight and lack of sleep that I've encountered. They stare back at me with a cold intensity that I partly remember from before all this. A past anger hiding like a ghost underneath the surface. One of the only familiarites that I've carried with me. My hair that was used to recieving a fair amount of attention hangs longer than I remember, falling limply in dark brown waves. Skin that was once fair and smooth is now dirty and worn, darker from sun exposure.

This person, this thing, isn't happy, or sad. It isn't beautiful, or ugly. It's just very, _very _tired.

I step outside quickly, almost walking headfirst into Carl, who's racing past with the backpack flying behind him.

"Mom! Dad! Look what we found!" he cries with pride, running up to Rick and Lori. I walk straight past, only breifly hearing sounds of praise and pride from the two parents.

When I reach the kitchen, Andrea is one side, removing her boots with an expression of discomfort. Daryl is the other, removing the contents of another bag on the table. When he sees me, he stops his work, and picks up his crossbow.

"I'm gonna take watch," he mumbles, promptly stomping past. When the door shuts, Andrea looks up at me.

"Hey, uh-" I hold up my hand and wave it gently in the air. "Can you help me out?"

She stares for a moment, stands up, and wipes her hands against the fabric of her shirt. "Oh, sure." I sit down on the opposing couch, watching as she rummages through one of the bags, pulling out a well-used medical kit. She makes her way over and sits just to my right.

"Can I ask you something?" Her voice is small, timid. She doesn't drag her eyes away from the kit as she begins unpacking what she needs.

As I see of the long, pointed needle, I find myself looking around the room to avoid the sight. "Yes."

She doesn't reply for a while, just threading the needle and cleaning the wound, before she manages to find her voice once more. "...Do you think we're safe here? I mean, long-term?"

The question draws my attention. There really is no such thing as 'long-term safety' anymore. But I can't tell these people that. "I don't know. I hope so," I finally decide to say. "Why you asking me?"

"You seem to have some good sense," she replies. My arm shudders with the contact of the needle, and I can feel the raw skin sting. She doesn't falter, and simply continues with the mess. "We're a strong group, but only together. There's only one or two people I see that could survive on their own."

"Who's that?" I ask, discomfort lacing my voice.

"Daryl and Shane." She pauses, and her eyes flick up towards me for the first time since we've started talking. "And now you."

I don't know how to react to that. With icy blue eyes, she watches me, observing my reaction with a passive stare. "Thanks."

"I don't know how much longer we're going to last. Sophia was just the beginning. Eventually we will break apart. Then we're done for."

"Maybe not," I say, trying to make my voice sound assuring in any way, shape, or form. It doesn't really work. "Having faith is pretty much 90% of the fight."

"I guess," she replies, although she sounds less than convinced. For a while, her attention is drawn back to the work below, and her face twists into one of concentration.

"Andrea, look. I can't tell you what I think is going to happen, because I really don't know how you all got this far." It's honesty, raw and unmerciful. "I don't even know how I'm still alive. But I'm gonna keep going because it's all I can do, and giving up just seems pointles."

"There's only going to be one person left standing, you know," she says, her voice blunt, but calm. It's as if she's talking about the weather, or a football game. "Rick seems to think that we're going to find some sort of salvation as a group. Survival of the fittest, that's all it is."

"That's a cheerful way to look at things," I mutter. It comes out cold, but I honestly can't say I disagree with her. None the less, it's a brutal way of looking at things. Does she really want to think that the only way someone can survive is with the inevitable death of someone like Dale? Carol? _Carl?_

"I like to think of it as realistic."

"Last person standing, huh?" The image that comes into my head is a figure standing on a mountain of bodies. Humans. Walkers. Everything. Someone standing over it all, blood-soaked from battle. Like a war portrait. Is this want Andrea pictures too? "Well then I hope it's someone good."

She doesn't reply to that. Instead, she keeps her head down, so I turn my attention to other things. Outside the window, the sky is now turning a light purple, tinted with the shadowing of night. Thin strips of grey clouds stretch against the background, going on for miles and miles. The sound of hammering echoes in the front, and I can guess that someone's fixing a fence or something. It's around here that I remember nights like this from a long time ago. Normally, the crickets would just be starting to sing now, and the wind would be rustling leaves in the oaks.

But it's completely quiet. The nature seems to be in mourning.

I don't know how long time passes before she speaks again. "Done."

I look down and examine the clean, neat stitching. "Thanks." Without much else to say, I rise from my seat, and turn to leave.

"Lyla?" Turning, I see her begin to pack away the blood soaked bandages. "I like you. Try not to die too soon, alright?" There's a joking tone in her voice, but still. There's something a litte heavier, a little more hurt just buried in the back of her eyes. Something that doesn't allow her smile to quite reach her cheeks.

"I'll try."

* * *

><p>Daryl is exactly where I hope to find him. A quick hop out the window and a scramble up the roof later, I see him sitting with his legs pulled up to his chest. His chin is rested on his knees, and I'm not sure, but from my point of view, it looks as if he has his eyes shut. I almost consider leaving him alone, but as I begin to step back, his calls quietly from across the way, "Ya don't gotta stand there."<p>

I climb down, avoiding a few pieces of broken slate, and settle a few feet away. "You know, I'm not a total bitch. I know when to be grateful."

"A handful of broken glass hurts like hell," he says quietly. His eyes are distant, and scanning the view ahead of him. It's easy to see that he's in thought, and only half listening to the attempt at an apology. "I tried not ta' make it hurt a lot."

I give a small nod, but our eyes don't meet as we talk. "It's okay, Dixon. I trust you."

"If you say so."

"Andrea stitched me up." I hold my hand up and waved it toward him. "Pretty cool, huh?"

A small smirk spreads shyly across his cheeks. "Battle scars," he replies.

"Exactly."

For a moment, the space betwwen us is quiet. Small tentrils of smoke begin to climb out of the chimney beside us, and climb slowly into the air. The smell of burning wood is weak, enough to avoid sight from a distance, but the heat is enough to warm the air a little. Someone laughs below us, and the sound echoes through the brick and lifts into the air. Daryl decides to speak then. "Ya' know, I was thinkin'..."

"This outta be good..."

"Shut it," he quickly replies, but a poorly hidden grin betrays him. "I was thinkin' that last night I told you 'bout Merle. But I ain't got nothin' on you."

I shift on the surface a little and twist my head from side to side, stretching out the muscles in my neck. "You know what, it's late. I'm tired. Seems a little much to tell you about my biography right now."

"Not everythin'. Just something in exchange for what I told you."

I search my mind for something to say. Something that maybe doesn't involve the things I don't want to relive. Things that don't make me want to shiver, or puke. Honestly, it doesn't leave a lot to the imagination. "Uh...okay. Let's see..." When I look over, he's watching me. Not to simply acknowledge my presence, or out of boredom. He was actually listening, waiting to hear something I had to say. I held his eyes for a few moments, before finding words to speak with. "When I was younger, I found a stray dog in the back woods behind our farm. I wasn't allowed to have a pet or anything, so I hid it in our barn. A really beautiful golden lab. I snuck in food for her and played with her when my parents weren't home. Course, they found her and sent her to the pound." I reach up and run a hand over my face, sighing heavily into my palm. "Hell, that was not a fun day. Or week, come to think of it."

"I bet you got grounded for a month or some shit."

As I nod, I turn my head a little to hide the small grimace that appears without my consent. "Yeah...something like that."

When I look back to him, he's still staring. Only the interest in his eyes that had been there before was now just an elevated eyebrow. He let out a quick snort. "...That story sucked."

"It's all you're getting," I retort, sticking my tongue out briefly.

He doesn't even look taken back, just shaking his head to himself with a quiet smile, like he was amused by a private joke. "You're so..."

"Charming? Seductive?"

"Weird."

"Yeah, well, you're mean." The pure lack of imagination in that come-back hits the both of us.

"Baby," he challenges.

"Redneck."

"Bitch."

We both fall quiet again. The next time someone speaks, it's Daryl. "So yer stickin' round, then."

"For now," I nod. A thought itches at the back of my head, and I can't contain it. "You want me to go?"

He eventually shrugs. "I don't care," he mumbles.

I almost have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Just when I thought he was breaking through to the man, he seems to be as stubborn and closed off as always.

But what he says actually hits home. I need to start thinking of my next move. I've had my fun with these people, and now it's time to move on. I've got to start heading West, where I can beat the cold weather and have a better chance. I've done what I can for them, and I've paid my debt. They probably won't be so willing to let me leave, them being complete do-gooders and all, but I can sneak away when I have the chance.

As soon as I know they're settled. That's when I can leave. With a clear head at least.

Something heavy hits my shoulder, and I twist my head around. Daryl's standing now, and his boot collides with my shoulder a second time. "You gonna eat?"

"Yeah," I say, pushing myself up from the ground, brushing my jeans with my palms. When I walk past him, I stop dead just a few feet away, sending him a glare as cold as I can. "Kick me again and I'll drop your ass," I mutter, before turning and walking away.

He laughs properly now. It's weird, hearing it. He's almost like a kid, and it only lasts for a few seconds, but he smiles and follows me with a spring in his step and in a better mood than I've seen him in all afternoon. "Yes, Ma'am."


	16. Chapter 16

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Walking Dead.**

* * *

><p>The next morning, the air is colder. Not freezing, but noticeable. The type of weather that stings the nostrils and numbs the toes. Dale and I are in the backyard, hacking at some logs that Glenn has brought over with some rusty axes. We'll be needing them for later. Carl is sitting on some lawn furniture with a book that has been shoved into his hands by Lori. Poor kid. Even the apocalypse can put off a little light education.<p>

Glenn has his cap over his eyes, laying on the grass beside us. Ever now and again, he'll brush a collection of wood splinters from his shirt. He lets out a large huff of air.

"What's another word for boring?" he asks, placing his hands behind his head.

Dale rolls his eyes towards me. I smile, and speak into the silence. "Mind-numbing?"

Carl looks up from his book briefly. "Dull?"

"Good one, but no."

"How about 'get your ass up and chop some wood for an old man?'" Dale offers, holding out his axe into the air.

Carl looks at me and chuckles when Glenn gets up from the ground, groaning as he does so. He stretches his hands high up into the air and looks around. "Man, what I wouldn't give for the internet right now."

"That's what you miss?" I ask, an eyebrow quirked. "The internet?"

"Of course. Gaming...music..."

"Porn."

"That too."

Carl laughs a little louder now. Dale even cracks into a bigger grin. "Okay, apart from the use of modern technology, what else do you miss?"

"Television," Carl replies for Glenn, throwing his forgotton book to the ground and crossing his legs. "The cartoons in the morning." He looks to the sky then, shutting his eyes in a dream-like state. "Cereal."

"Don't," Glenn sighs. "I still miss the taste of Lucky Charms."

"What about you, Lyla?"

I lean into the handle on the axe slightly, adjusting the baseball cap on my head that I've borrowed from the RV. "Uhh...probably clean clothes. Or unlimited supply of fresh socks."

Glenn shrugs. "I guess if you miss the more domestic things, then yeah. I guess I miss the whole..."

His voice fades out then, clearing the air to make another sound louder. The sound of yellling. Angry voices coming from a few yards away. Glenn and Dale exchance questioning faces, and I drop my axe to the ground. As part of some strange, silent agreement, we decide to go investigate. We move around the garden fence and make our way towards the source, Carl following close behind. As we get closer, the yelling turns into more voices. I can only catch out a few words, like 'city', 'stupid', and 'brother'.

"What's going on?" Glenn wonders aloud as our walk turns into a slow jog.

"My guess is that we have a conflict in interests," Dale replies. As we round the corner, the ground beneath my feet tears and rips into small dust clouds as I skid to a sudden stop. The others stop too. Just a few feet away, two figures are on the ground, locked into a battle of fists. Strings of blood are painted onto the ground as Daryl throws his fist into T-Dog's face. Around them, Shane and Rick try and reach in, attempting to seperate them one way or another.

"I told ya' not to say shit about my brother!"

"I didn't say anything, man!"

Lori and Carol are standing just a few feet away, mild horror playing in their faces. Carl gravitates over to his mother, who places her hands on his shoulders as he approaches. He watches with more of an interest, his eyes wide as he watches the struggle. I don't understand why they are staring, without taking action. Why are they all just standing there?

More curses are thrown about, while Rick tries to reason with the two of them. In his defence, T-Dog is getting in a few good punches, but Daryl still manages to keep him to the ground. He has blood on his face too, but he ignores the drips down his lips as he fights back. Someone must have done something to set this off badly.

This is not good. Daryl's looking like a psycho. From the way the others are looking, they're just waiting for him to slip up and hit someone one too many times. It's not hard to put two and two together. Someone gets a little too violent, and the remaining memebers of said group decide that they've gotta go. It happens, I've seen it. Rick probably isn't the type of person to kick someone roadside after one accident, but I can't say the same for Shane or anyone else. If he breaks loose, Dixon is gone.

After watching for a few more moments, I grunt in annoyance loudly for them to hear, and storm forward. When I reach them, T-Dog is on the ground, blood smeared across his jaw, and Daryl looks as if he's going to pounce on him one more time. Shane yanks his arms around Daryl's and drags him back. The dust picks up under their feet, looking somewhat like those clouds of fight you used to see in cartoons. Daryl's still yelling and cursing into the air when I move in front of him.

"Enough." I send him the most fierce look I can. He breaks away from his yelling for a moment to glare back at me, icy fire burning at the back of his eyes.

"You best get outta my way," he growls, continuing his struggle against a fierce-looking Shane. "I'm gonna kill the son of a bitch!"

Looking past Dixon's shoulder, I look towards Shane. He seems about one second away from snapping the other's neck. Why all the breakdowns suddenly? I reach over and whack his arm with more force than intended. "Let him go," I demand.

Shane opens and shuts his mouth several times, before giving up and releasing Daryl. As he manages to push forward a little, I step closer, and press my fist against his chest, which is rising and falling violently with his angry pants. "You're gonna kill him? Really?"

"Get outta ma' way," he mutters.

"Cool it. He's done nothing to you."

"This ain't yer' fight, what do you care?"

I look towards the others, who's peaked curiousity are forcing them to watch like an audience. For the most part, they don't look surprised. This has probably happened many times before. It's not my business at all, but for some reason, it still makes me angry. They're judging, and that's the end of it. They know about as much as Daryl as I do, which isn't a lot. "You know how they think of you, Dixon." My voice comes out just loud enough for the two of us to hear. "Don't let them be right."

The words seem to sink in for him. His lips part slightly through his breaths and I can feel his heartbeat, loud and erratic under my hand. Despite the sounds of the wind and the quiet whispers of the others, everything seems to go quiet. It's the type of thing that sets off alarm bells in my head, and I hope to God that I'm not the only one who feels this. It's a long shot, but maybe Daryl does too because his eyes flicker across my face several times before he reacts. "Get offa' me!" he yells suddenly, shrugging my hand away. He turns his back and stomps past the others, mumbling something under his breath that the rest of us can't hear.

The show is over, forcefully and quickly. When everyone takes that as their cue to leave, I feel a hand on my shoulder, followed by Rick's voice, tired but appreciative. "You do weekends, as well?"

I turn, and see him wearing a small grin, as if he's perfectly satisfied with his little joke. I can't bring myself to return the smile. "I'm only gonna do this once, Rick." I only just see someone helping T-Dog to the ground, but I don't stay to help. I only go to return to where I was before, hoping to finish what I planned to do for the day.

* * *

><p>It's hours later until I see Daryl again.<p>

We've done all the yard work we can do, and nobody says anything about what happened. We've fixed holes in the fences, and others have cleared out at least two more houses. Now I'm starting to feel bored. I manage to ditch the others around Noon, and walk around the estate for a little while. When I reach back round to the base house again, everyone looks as if they've moved indoors.

As I walk down the driveway, it all seems quiet for a moment. Too quiet. The feeling that something's wrong rises quickly in my stomach, and I suddenly feel eyes on me. I barely have time to assess the situation, as when I begin to slow down, a hand lands on my shoulder and grips it tight, yanking me back into the air. It's not a walker, I can tell that instantly. There's no foul smell, no hungry growls or whines. When my body should hit the ground, another hand reaches around for my other shoulder and forces me back up.

When I spin around, I come face to face with Daryl. He doesn't even glance at me, but merely grabs my shoulders again, and begins to drag me away. "We gotta' talk," he mutters. I'm not weak, but he sure has a hell of a lot of strength, and I quickly give up on trying to release his grip. It's then that I notice the garage door is open, and the dim lightbulb has been switched on, filling the darkness with a small yellow glow.

Frustration quickly kicks in. "Hey, what the-" The words break into a small gasp as he slams my back against the brick wall near the door. It hurts, and his fists are now digging into my shoulders with such force that I'm surprised the skin hasn't broken yet. The anger is not unexpected. The violence is.

I can't do anything else but watch as he moves to press his forearm against my collarbone, holding me in place. Reaching over, he flicks the switch on a small box, and waits until the garage door has desended completely before he even gives me his attention.

Despite the fact that his eyes stand out coldly in the darkness of the room, I'm not scared. Just a little surprised. He's looking at me with such contempt, such coldness, that I can almost feel the hate radiating from his body. Not surprising considering our proxemity. His chest is nearly pressing against mine.

When he does talk, it's a low, dangerous echo that barely passes between the two of us. "You made me look like an idiot back there." His jaw is tight, and he looks as if he's fighting to hold back. Like he'd hit me if he didn't have even the slightest control over himself. "Don't ever treat me like that in front of 'em again."

"I was just trying to stop you from getting yourself in trouble," I try and reason. "Shane was watching you like a piece of meat. You should be more careful."

"Ain't none of yer' concern," he bites back. "If I get kicked out, I can take it."

"You're not an idiot. You know you have a better chance of survival with them."

"I'd rather be on my own than look like someone's bitch. That's exactly how you made me look."

All my instincts are telling me to shut up and just take it, but accusation is too false for me to ignore. I can almost see my face contort into rage in his eyes. "I made you look good, you dick! Hurting T-Dog would have made them kick you out! I saved your ass!"

"Not yer' business, not yer' problem." The response is cooler than what I expected.

I can feel my brow furrow. God damn it, why does he get to me like this? If it were anyone else, I wouldn't give two shits. "Wow, you really need to be in control, don't you?"

As soon as the words escape, he pushes his arm harder against my neck. I try to remain calm; try and uphold some sort of dignity that I can use against him, but the pressure forces an involuntary yelp from the back of my throat. No less than a heartbeat after this happens, he quickly releases his arm, and steps back. I can't tell by his stone-like expression whether he didn't mean to hurt me, or whether he's preparing to fight some more.

His shoulders are starting to rise, and his breathing has increased. Fisting his hands tightly by his sides, he turns his head to the side, sending his glare into the ground. The muscles in his jaw are practically jumping now. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but he's turning his back and kicking a three-legged table to the ground with an almighty crash that seems to shake the whole room. I shut myself up, and straighten my back with my arms firmly by my side.

He kicks something else, a chair this time, and begins to slam his food down onto the maggot infested wood with anger that's probably reserved for me. When he turns around again, his face is so different, it almost makes my heart stop. He doesn't look angry anymore, only upset. His lips are pressed together tightly, and there's something in his eyes that's preventing him from looking directly at me. It's a far cry from sadness, but still.

"What do you know, anyway?! You don't know anythin' bout me!" He begins to yell. "I know exactly who you are. Spoilt, stupid bitch who don't know anythin' about life." He's quickly recovered from whatever silent breakdown he's had, and quickly returns to the darker anger he had before. He looks over now, and begins to storm towards me, only stopping with his face a few inches from mine. I stand my ground, not willing to back down against whatever shit he's going through.

Anything you hold back nowadays only drives you insane.

"The only reason yer' alive is because you struck lucky," he snarls. "Ain't nothin' special 'bout you!"

I'm not gonna lie, it's pretty cutting. Not because the way he said it, or the fact he said it, but because it brings back something I really don't want to fucking remember. Another voice, a different one. One that's way worse than an angry Dixon.

He must know that he's hit something when he seems to take a moment to breath. He's staring at me, watching, waiting for what I'll say next. Maybe he wants me to get angry, cry, or break down. I don't think he expects me to do what I do next. Nothing at all. I don't tear my eyes from his as I speak in a quiet, calm voice. "Well, you're not wrong about that." His eyes narrow, and he looks taken back for a split second. "At least there's one thing we have in common, Dixon... We're both broken."

"You don't know what 'broken' means," he mutters back, venom dripping in his voice.

"Do _you_ even know what it means?" Just for extra measure, I lean forward slightly, and give him the smallest of smirks. "...Redneck?"

What happens next seems quick. Really quick. He leans back instantly and brings his arm back, inhaling a sharp breath. As he begins to bring his hand down, I can see his process of thought. He catches himself, sees himself from the outside, and does the most unexpected thing. He stops. But his expression doesn't budge as he holds his arm in place, mid-swing.

It's this that gets me angry. Either hit me or don't hit me, I can take it. Just don't waste my time with all the moral questioning in between. I can't hide the anger in my face when I speak again. "Go ahead. Take your best shot."

He quickly shakes his head, scoffing angrily into the ground. Turning, he storms toward the door, slamming it behind him. The sound echoes through the room with terrible vibration, and it seems to make the hanging light shake. The shadows shift. It makes everything seem...lonely. It's then that I realise my hands are shaking violently, and I shove them into my pockets.

My eyes fall to the other objects around the room. A broken mirror, where the pieces lie jagged on the ground. A crib in the corner is completely empty, with a rusty mobile of stars hang as still as stone. There's a broken bike, an old tennis kit, some other bits of useless furnishings. A paint tin is on it's side, with a vile shade of cream has stuck to the ground with time. This things don't make me sad, more so a little resentful for reasons that I don't even understand fully.

My legs are tired now, and I sink down the wall and to the floor, letting my legs fall in front of me. As the back of my head hits the cold stone behind, I wonder why it is that I have the ability to be such a bitch sometimes. I don't know why I said those things to Dixon that may have been hurtful. It's just I have this stupid thing where I can't sit and take abuse from someone else. Some people wouldn't consider that a bad thing, standing up for yourself and all that, but it's only ever caused me nothing but trouble. I never used to be like this. It's a trait that was just a result from a very long and considerably painful time.

This is the point where I'd think of what I'd all be like if everything were back to normal. But nothing like that comes to my mind. Hell, I hated things just as much before the world went to shit. Stuck in a dead end job with no future, no family, no friends to speak of. I'm not stupid, I know that it's not normal to be like me. Or Dixon for that matter. To want to kill walkers. To not look at them like people, but as monsters that need to be put down. To walk head first into trouble and to hope that we go down swinging.

Don't get me wrong, the thought is concerning. But it's the end of the world, and you do what you have to do.

I'm sitting in silence for who knows how long before I'm even aware that I've been missing. Soon, the bulb is the only source of light in the room, and small flecks of dust are floating around in the air.

It's about half an hour after the sun begins to fall that the door to the garage cracks open, letting in a new beam of sharp light. An older voice asks through the cracks, "Lyla?"

I make a small sound of acknowledgement, and wait until the person walks into the light before I actually speak. "Hi."

Dale looks around the room for a moment, absorbing the atmosphere. When he seems to be finished, he comes and sits by the wall just a few feet away from me. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna ask."

"Okay."

Neither of us says a word for several minutes, until he decides that he's been holding back for long enough and speaks up. "Nobody can handle Daryl like that. None of us have really tried."

"He didn't like it."

"He listened, didn't he? What else was there to stop him from beating T-Dog half to death?"

He's right on that one. If he really wanted to hurt someone then nobody else would stop him. I guess my intervention was not for nothing. "I guess so."

"He listens to you. He doesn't do that with the rest of us, and we've known him for months. With you, it's only a matter of days." His tone of voice takes on that of how someone would talk to a young child. I'm far too exhausted to deal with that type of treatment right now.

"Dale, I really appreciate the free therapy session, but I can handle a little rough-housing," I say. It comes out a little ungrateful, and I try and lighten my tone. "If Dixon really bothered me, then he'd know about it."

Dale nods in understanding. He says nothing more on the subject, and stands up. As he brushes the dust from his legs, he looks towards the door. "Are you gonna come in? We've got some form of food, I think."

Food sounds good, and I quickly realise that for the rest of the night, these thoughts can be pushed back. If Dixon wants to address what went down eariler, then he can come and find me tomorrow. I force out a smile that doesn't quite reach my cheeks as I push myself up from the ground. "Yeah." Following him out, I reach and tug on the chain that lights the room. When the shadows disappear and the darkness covers the room, it's as if nothing had happened in there.

* * *

><p>When the sky is black and the fire is lit, I'm sitting with Carl on the floor by the couch, legs crossed. The food has no taste to me as I shovel it down, but I can only guess that it's some form of canned vegetables. Carl is less enthusiastic, and sticks his fork into the can and swivels it around a little. His mouth twists in disgust. "This is gross."<p>

"Can't be any worse than what Shane got stuck with," I reply, pointing my fork over to where Shane sits, spooning some weird looking yellow shit out of a can with obvious distain on his features.

The kid shrugs, and unwillingly swallows another mouthful, before looking up with a kind of bashful questioning. "...Are you and Daryl going to hunt some more?" His voice is quiet, like asking for decent food is asking for way too much. "Squirrel doesn't seem so bad now."

Daryl isn't even in the room. I don't know where he is, but I still look around to see if he's suddenly there, ready to bark out some sarcastic threat to Carl about hunting for his own food. But nothing happens, and I can't bring myself to look Carl in the eye as I reply. "I don't know. Probably."

Hunting would be excellent right now. Nothing better than skinning a deer or something to release a bit of tension. I can't, however, promise that Daryl and I will speak to each other for a while. Let alone work together. I consider the idea of going out in the morning on my own, but it doesn't seem as appealing as a hunt normally would. It sounds selfish, but there's too much going on to plan a little hiking trip through these unknown parts.

I almost miss it when Carl speaks again, as his voice is incredibly timid. "If he won't, I could go with you."

I have to restrain the small snort that threatens to escape at the image of Carl working a shotgun twice his size. "Thanks, but no thanks," I say, the amused grin not hidden well. "I don't wanna get in trouble with your Mom, and I'm pretty sure you won't either."

Carl's smile drops then, and he quickly pulls the brim of his hat down even furthur. "I'm not a kid," he says, his voice brooding. "I mean, I know I am, but I don't feel like it. Don't baby me like everyone else."

I poke him in the shoulder with my finger, and he flinches away, looking offended. "Don't sass me, kid," I retort. "I never said anything like that. Hunting's a serious business, and I need someone taller than 4 foot nothing watching my back, got it?"

When his eyes peak at me under the hat, he lets a grin spread. "When I'm older, then?"

He didn't mean anything by it, but what he says makes me want to wince. There's no way in Hell that I could tell this kid that 'older' is a very imaginary concept right now. For anyone. We could all be rotting flesh in a year from now, or a month, or even a week. That I might not be around to teach him how to hunt, or that he might not be there for teaching.

But he's smiling at me with that freckled face and wide eyes that are just asking to be put up with. Just asking me to humour him in this one thought. So I quickly push a smile to the surface, and hold my hand out wide.

"Deal," I say, as we shake on it.

A few moments later, just over the sound of chatter, someone speaks. It makes everyone grow silent. The voice belongs to Andrea.

"Glenn, are you okay?"

It prompts everyone to look up towards the person in question. Glenn's sitting between Dale and Carol, seemingly frozen. His head is bowed down, and his brow is furrowed in something akin to confusion.

Shane leans over, his face scrutinizing the young man. "Hey Glenn-"

Glenn cuts him off instantly, holding up his finger towards the rest of the group. "Shh," he hisses. Everyone falls silent, and watches. It's when the only sounds that anyone can hear are the flickering and spitting of the fire, and the small pats of rain agains the window that we hear something else. Something...different.

In the distance, just in earshot, is a very low echo. Almost like a humming. No, not a humming. Like an engine. Not even that. The silence is haunting, and as everyone seems to stick out their ears to hear whatever the mystery noise is, I feel a tug on my shirt. When I look down, Carl is holding the fabric on my back, staring at the older members of the group, sensing something is out of place.

"What is that?" he asks, the first person to break the trance of the others.

Shane suddenly seems the most uncomfortable. He doesn't hide it very well. Placing his can down on the table with a loud thud. "It's just the thunder," he insists.

Glenn stands then, and any relief that anyone had felt quickly disappeared. "No..." he mutters, seeming a little lost. He looks up, and quickly walks towards the window. His face falls as he looks out. "That."

At once, the others rise from their seats and move towards the windows all facing the front. Carl's up before me, and as I place myself behind Rick to see.

"Oh my god." Someone gasps. I still don't remember who.

It's dark outside, but the moonlight casts a ghostly glow over everything. The ground looks wet with the light showers of rain, and the trees are still shifting in the wind. Not everything can be seen from where we are, but we can see enough. Just along the edge of the fence that we trailed the previous day, there are movements in the dark. Just a few feet away from the boundies. That's the sound. Moaning. It's coming from the shadows. Figures.

Walkers.

Someone whimpers, and that seems to set the others off. Curses are muttered, someone gasps, and I'm pretty sure I hear the safety being pulled back on a gun. Rick quickly comes back to the world, and holds his hand up without tearing his eyes away. "Nobody panic. We're safe."

"Why are they just standing there?"

"They know the fence is electric," Glenn muses. "I mean, they've actually worked out not to go near it."

Andrea steps back, and folds her arms tightly across her chest. "Should we shoot them?"

"Too much noise." Rick says, almost too quickly. "They'll leave." He tries to sound reassuring, but I'm not sure whether it's for the the others, or for his own belief.

Lori pats Carl's shoulders, her eyes wide as she stares outside. "Carl, bed."

I don't remember hearing any protests from Carl, but soon they've both left the room.

Rick looks over and waves Shane to follow him. They both begin to storm from the room, with Rick stating, "Let's go find Dixon."

Daryl. He's probably outside. He probably has no idea. The thought's enough to make me turn to leave with them when I hear a slightly exhausted, "Hold yer' horses." Appearing in the doorway, just before Rick and Shane, Daryl has his arms hanging limply by his sides. His face is passive, and he only looks towards Rick. "I'm right here."

"Now's not the time to be runnin' off, man," Shane spits.

Daryl barely sends him a glance, his voice only sounding bitter as he replies. "Kiss my ass, Walsh. Didn't know we had a curfew now."

Rick steps in quickly. "Did you see-"

"Yeah, I did," Daryl says. He moves past the others and towards the pile of bags that's in the corner, and zips one open to pull out a handgun. He pulls the barrel back and nods his head toward the back door. "Got 'em round the back, too."

Behind me, Glenn groans. "Aw, man." We both turn to look back out the window, where the moans and hisses are now more obvious, and the figures shift in their places, never moving more than an inch closer to the fence. He looks at me, with a tired, hopeless look in his eyes. "We can't catch a break."


	17. Chapter 17

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Walking Dead.**

* * *

><p><em>"We'll have to take them out tomorrow. We'll split up and cover more ground."<em>

* * *

><p>Rick's orders were simple. In the morning, it's clear he got as much sleep as any of us did. The noises seemed to ring out through the house like a nightmare. The handgun I'm holding as we begin to walk out into the garden has seven bullets in it, and I intend not to use a single one of them. If I can do this with a knife or something, it'd make the ride a lot smoother.<p>

I cover the left side with Andrea, Rick, and T-Dog. The others cover the right, and will work their way back to us. For some reason, Lori and Carl have permission to stay in the house. Carl I understand, but I don't see how Lori gets a free pass everytime we do something. I'm not gonna lie, it pisses me off. We're out here busting our asses, and she gets to put her feet up.

Still, save the anger for the walkers, that's my motto.

On the way there, I pick up a bit of loose piping from the back of a broken down VW. Rick seems to have found a machete from somewhere, and T-Dog sticks with a sharp looking piece of fencing. Andrea doesn't stray from a small knife in her back pocket.

Nobody really says much while we make the rounds. There's not much to talk about, and it's almost certain that we're all consumed with the same thought. The fact that the walkers have somehow trained themselves not to touch the electric fence is less than comforting. Actually, it's terrifying. They're not supposed to acknowledge pain or have the ability to even _understand_ things. Something must have drawn them over to the estate. Smoke from the fireplace maybe? But we only ever kept it as low flames... Whatever it was, it managed to attract a few, maybe even a large herd. A few walk into the fence, and learn not to do it again.

What the fuck is happening?

For a solid two hours or so, I repeatedly stick the sharp end of the pipe through the holes in the fence, nailing the walkers through the brain. The crowds seem to thin smaller and smaller, until we've cleared most of the monsters in sight. There are still a few that we can't reach. Ones that don't seem interested in us just yet, as their attention is focused on a dying deer just in eyesight. I don't expect to clear them all out, as the housing is right next to a large opening of woods, and it's clear that these are not the only ones we're gonna have to deal with. It's Rick who strikes the last one standing, and just a few moments after, we come around to see the others just finishing up. No doubt there are more around back, but until then, we've done all we can do.

"All through?" Shane asks as the groups collect together.

Andrea nods and wipes the blood from her knife onto the grass. "They seemed hungry. The fence stops them but it doesn't seem to harm them much."

T-Dog wipes his brow with the back of his hand, and throws his stick of wood to the side. "I still don't understand it. If it don't hurt 'em, then why avoid it?"

"They're not _us,_" Glenn says. "Stop talking as if they can think," he half hisses, pointing the barrel of his rifle to his head to prove his point. "They're just standing there."

"Relax, kid," Daryl speaks for the first time. I look towards him, but he pays me no mind, speaking only to Glenn. "They ain't got no workin' brains. They're just walkin' and learnin' as they go. They ain't makin' plans or nothin'."

"Okay, everybody just calm down for a second," Rick says, his voice raised. The voices fall.

"Maybe we should just go back to the house," Carol suggests.

"Rick, I have a question."

Rick looks over to Andrea, who's shifting on her feet slightly. "Yeah?"

"Well. There's gotta be at least 20 houses in here. It's been so long since we've had our own privacy and everything. I was just thinking that maybe we could split up. Claim our own places?"

That is one idea that I am happy to vote for. I spent most of my time on the road on my own. A little privacy sounds freaking peachy right about now.

Rick looks over to Shane, for some silent agreement. After a while, he looks back up and asks aloud, "Well, I know what I think. What about you guys?"

Glenn shrugs. "I've got no opinion."

"I'm cool with that," T-Dog adds.

"Daryl?" Rick asks. I can't help but notice Shane's little double-take.

Daryl looks over his shoulder toward the houses. "Don't matter to me."

"I'm up for it," I throw in. "But we need to have our own weapons. Just in case."

"Of course. All you need to come back to the house and take everything that's yours. Don't unpack your stuff, in case we need to make a break for it."

There seemed to be a collective joy in the group that remained silent. They've probably been cramped up together in that RV for months on end. I doubt any of them could have afforded one of these places anyway. It's like candyland for end of the world survivors.

* * *

><p>I've never owned anything. Even my apartment in the city was rented. So I take time in choosing my house. In the end, I pick the smallest I can find. Faded white walls, large windows, and a lawn that may have once been the envy for the rest of the street. The rest of my stuff is in a pile on the lawn, and waiting to be taken in. I haven't had a chance to check through the house for walkers yet, but all seems peaceful. There are large, dead flower beds that stretch across the entire garden, and I'm picking at them absent mindedly when someone calls from the front path.<p>

"Hey, Lyla?"

I look up and see Carl, walking over with a large red tool box in his hands. I give him a small wave. "Your Mom know you're walking around on your own?"

The box hits the ground with a heavy thud, and Carl tips the edge of his hat back. I've never seen him without it. "Dad says it's okay as long as there's someone here." A wide grin spreads in his face. "And I got this..." He lifts up the front of his shirt a little to reveal a small pistol tucked into his belt.

"Alright Lone Ranger, just be careful."

"Dale wants to know if you can take this to Daryl. He's getting gas from the cars around the neighbourhood."

I let out a large groan and fall back into the grass, my hands covering my face. "Why don't you do it?"

"I can't leave the house without my parents knowing where I am."

He's got me on that one. I force myself to sit up again, and send him a pissed off glare as I grab the handle of the tool box. "You're a pain in my ass, Grimes."

"I know," he smiles, and turns to leave again. That kid's a crazy fool.

I watch him go, before letting out a sigh. I suppose getting shit out of the way will be good for me. Maybe he'll kick me out on my ass, yet another thing I have to do at some point. Leaving the garden, I just miss Shane walking past, and he almost walks right into me. He doesn't even notice the glare on my face, as his eyes are set dead ahead with a frightening look, making me choose not to mess with him. Trouble in paradise.

It takes me a while to find where Daryl is. But I begin to walk back to the large iron gates by the entrance that are shut tight. From the corner of my eye, I catch a pair of angel wings that stick out among the brown and yellowing leaves. He's standing by a large truck, a large silver tanker by his feet that he's pumping fuel into. I can't hold back the groan that escapes. Inhaling tightly, I straighten my shoulders and walk over. When I reach the truck, he's bending down slightly, and his eyes rise to meet mine. They drop quickly though, and he continues his work.

I place the tool box in the back of the truck and lean against the side. As I cross my arms, I look out toward the yard and avoid eye contact with the quiet hunter. "Hey. Brought this for you."

There's a pause in his reply, but he mumbles quietly. "Hmm."

It doesn't feel right to say anything right away, so I decide to go through the contents of the car, and see if there's anything of worth. Daryl says nothing, but I get that feeling again. The feeling that eyes are on me, and when I turn around, he's ducking his head down to stare at the ground, his eyes narrowed in thought. I jump in the passenger seat, and after messing digging around for a little while, I knock open the glove compartment with my knee. Inside there are a few pieces of paper, a leftover pack of smokes, and an empty beer can.

After a moment, my eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, and I see Daryl fixing the cap on the fuel tank. He's done, and I slide out of the front, gently kicking the door shut after. As he begins to move, I follow him, and we begin to walk to the next driveway in silence.

It's strange to think that one of the only people I've become friendly with now has nothing to say to me. Or at least, doesn't know how to start a conversation.

When I can't handle the quiet any longer, I walk ahead of him a few paces, and turn. I walk a few steps backwards until he slows, his eyes on me with slight confusion. "Don't you have something to say?"

He slows to a stop then, and watches me for a few beats. Reaching up, he scratches the back of his neck and drops his gaze to the ground in discomfort. "You're right." When he speaks, it shocks me a little, because I was expecting just a shove and a dismissive comment. Instead, he lifts his head, and steps a foot closer. He's looking at me again, his head tilted just slightly in a very thoughtful way that doesn't quite match him. "Listen, 'cause I just gotta ask..." I'm completely caught up now, waiting for some apology or form of redemption that I wouldn't expect from him. He takes another step forward, and I almost step back in unison, but I can't quite control my feet. They seem to want to stay in place. He's plain staring at me now, and his shoulders shift in movement.

A million things can happen, I know, but I do not expect what happens next.

"Can you carry this?" A small smirk appears out of nowhere on his face. "Thanks." In seconds, he's flinging the tank into my arms, and I almost drop the tool box on the ground in the process of catching it. I look up, my face a mix of bewilderment and irritation. He continues to grin to himself, which seems to make years that have burned into his skin drift away completely. As I lift the heavy load into my arms to steady it, I can't help but let out an exhale of laughter. Daryl begins to move again, and I just keep up, lowering the tank on the ground as we reach the next car. He does his thing, and begins to set up the pump and tank to clean out the fuel.

"Look." I decide to bring back the topic before searching the car. Best to rip off the band-aid and get it over with. He just looks over the trunk with a pair of scrutinising eyes. "I didn't mean to bust your image, okay? I just didn't wanna see you get in too much shit." I give my hand a small wave, and move around to pull the driver door open. "But you're right. Not my problem. You fight who you want."

I don't expect a reply or even gratitude from that, and that's exactly what I get. I'm not angry or anything, in fact, it feels good. Making peace is something that I find very relaxing.

This car is a little better in terms of hidden gold. There's a small pocket knife in the glove compartment, and a first aid kid tucked under one of the back seats. (I chose to ignore the empty childseat in the back.) When Daryl's done, we repeat another walk to another driveway, this time completely silent. In fact, it's only when we're finishing up a 95' Chevy that he even begins to make a sound.

I walk around the back of the car, and he's still standing there, glaring into the ground with a look that shows his train of intense thought. I can almost smell burning as his face twists in combination with some mumbled words. "I uh, I don't-" He sighs, pissed with himself, and tries again. "It's just- uh, I-"

"Walker got your tongue?"

He grabs the tool box while I carry the tank, and sweeps it up with one hand in a brisk motion. "Forget it," he says, brushing past me without making any contact of skin.

I can't help but find his confusion of words amusing. "No! What?" With the front of the tank, I swing it forward gently and hit the back of his leg. He only turns around to send a quick warning glare. "I think the word you're looking for is _sorry_." He looks over his shoulder, his face twisted into a grimace. "It's not gonna hurt," I say with a small chuckle.

It takes him a minute to run though the word in his head a few times, but eventually he forces out a quiet, but true apology. "Sorry."

"Apology accepted."

As part of our little equilibrium, silence between conversations is expected. However, more or less a heartbeat after I've spoken, he picks it back up. "I don't want you to think I'm the type of person to go round hittin' people and pickin' fights. Things were said, alright? And I ain't a man who hits women. Even you."

I roll my eyes. "Gee, that was sincere."

"I mean it," he says, a little more forceful this time. "I know how I look. That ain't who I am. Not really."

"I know."

"Good." His head drops, and the next part comes out so quiet that I barely hear. "The others are scared a' me, I think. I don't care, but it's just...you know, we hunt together."

"Oh, so you still need a hunting buddy?"

"I don't _need_ nothin'. You're a good hunter is all."

"Thanks."

"Who taught ya?" The complete change in conversation throws me off a little.

I shrug. "I taught myself." He doesn't answer. Maybe he doesn't believe me.

Whatever, I don't care. The sky is a peachy pink now, and Daryl wipes the sweat from his brow as he places the tools down. "I'm done. We got enough." He reaches over and grabs the heavy tank from my hand as if it's nothing. "I'll take this back."

"Okay." He walks away without another word, and I feel some pride in the fact that we managed to have a conversation without killing each other. I shove my hands in my pockets, and kick at something laying in the driveway. A dirty dog bowl. For the first time, I actually look forward to the night. Some privacy, some alone time is much needed this far into the game.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead. All reviews are loved and appreciated.**

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><p>After the sun falls and the moon comes out, everything is darkened and made gloomy by the night. There are some amber glows from windows of other houses where others from the group have lit fires. I don't just yet. I need to get out and walk, no matter how dark it is. There's something strange about being lonely again. Not that I'm scared or anything, because I've spent plenty of nights on my own in the woods, or in some abandoned shed. It's just a different feeling after being with these people for the past week or so. Besides, after an unfortunate incident with finding a fucking <em>nursery<em> upstairs, I need some air.

I don't have a torch with me, but I don't want to bother anyone else to borrow one. On the other hand, the moon is bright enough to give enough light, and I can just about walk round without falling on my face.

I've been walking for around a half an hour until I'm stopped cold in my tracks.

Just behind me, something snaps. A twig maybe. It's enough to set me off as I grab Carl's knife from my back pocket and swing it up in front of me. When I turn on my heel, perfectly ready to strike something between the eyes, a hand reaches up and grabs my wrist.

Daryl holds my knife in place and lets a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "Easy, woman!"

I tug my wrist away and let my arm hang weakly. Damn it, I was kinda looking forward to killing something just then. I can feel my face contort into a frown. "Suck dirt and die, Dixon. I could have killed you."

He seems to walk around me with a hidden country swagger that I haven't seen since we first met when he wondered away with my deer. (It's still mine.) "With that thing?" he asks, amusement playing in his features.

I can't work out why, but he definitely seems a little more comfortable than he normally does. Less tense, less inclined to reach out and snap a neck or two. "What do you want?"

He takes a step back and looks me up and down, before waving his hand and half stumbling in the other direction. "Woah, if yer' gonna be all fiesty, then forget it." Sweet hell, the man's off-his-face drunk.

It suddenly hits me how hilarious that is, and I hide a laugh by coughing loudly. His attention is grabbed again, and I begin to follow him as he walks slowly toward wherever he's going. "No, what?"

"I just so happen to hit the jackpot," he says proudly. "Wanna help me out?"

* * *

><p>Turns out Daryl was right.<p>

Funny how some of the most respected friendly neighbourhood residents can hide their loves for alcohol with a couple of locks. But really, it's only just one padlock around the outside of an old chest of drawers, and that's nothing a small pocket knife can't break through. When I get to Dixon's chosen residence, he's already cracked it, and a half bottle of whiskey lies on the ground. I go for another bottle all to myself, and take large gulps inbetween searches through the drawers.

Daryl's standing above me for a little while, but gets bored quickly. He walks away, mumbling quietly. "Man, if this were all mine, then I dunno what I'd be keepin' secrets for."

"Huh?"

"Nice house, easy life...why hide all the booze?" He shakes his head. I continue to dig through the contents of the drawer, and listen to him talk to himself. "Crazy."

I come across a pack of playing cards. I remember these babies well. After all, there was only two ways I could make some spare cash during my teen years, and I chose to keep my clothes on. "Hey, wanna play some Jack?"

He lets himself collapse in the couch, his arms spread out, and his legs lifted onto the table. "I'll just empty out ma' savings now."

"Pfft."

"Well what do you wanna play for?"

I walk over, the cards in one hand and a bottle in the other. Sitting myself on the floor near the low fire, I place both on the table. "Bullets?" I suggest. "That's a valuable trade nowadays. One extra could save your life."

"Done deal," he nods, taking another large gulp from the bottle in his hand. After we've both picked out a handful from our guns, I shuffle the pack as well as I can under the influence, and he soon begins calling out orders in a mellow, slightly slurred voice. "Hit me...Hit me."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Hmm."

"What were you fighting with T-Dog about?"

He keeps his eyes on the table. "Stuff."

"What kinda stuff?"

He sits up theatrically then, looking at me like I'm crazy for asking such a thing. "Ain't none of yer' business." With a child-like grin, he sounds out his words slowly. "Ly-Laaa." Helping himself to another swig, he watches me react with irritation.

"Fine," I mutter. Without him prompting, I place down another card and smirk toward him. "Too bad. Gimmie a bullet."

With a flick of his fingers, he rolls a small bullet across the table before grabbing the cards and shuffling them quietly. His bemused expression drops, and he begins to stare at the table with a hard gaze. "Shane said somethin' 'bout my brother." When he finally speaks, I look back up. He avoids eye contact as he places a card down. "Then Rick and T got into it and I kept lookin' at him like the guy who lost the key to Merle's cuffs." A twitch hides itself in his eyes, and there's a flash of pain that I just catch from him.

Funny, how he's pegged as a hunter, and a hick. But nobody probably ever thinks of him as a little brother.

"Hit me." Despite the slight buzz in my blood, I manage to speak in a quiet voice, out of respect for his sudden grief if nothing else. "So, really, it was Shane's fault?"

"Yeah, but Shane can't be touched."

"Why? Hit me."

He shrugs a little, placing another card down. "Rick's best friend. Second in command. Whatever. Personally, I think the guy's a dick who just needs ta' get laid."

A quick snort escapes me, and I try to remember the last time I had a half decent fuck. Don't get me wrong, I'm no Saint, but it's been long enough. "Well, he can join the freakin' club." Daryl's eyebrows hit the ceiling, and I shrug at him. To this, he gives a low snicker, and shakes his head to himself. "Hit me."

We play for a while longer, and I come to realise that I suck at Blackjack when drunk. A few shitty calls later and I'm out 3 bullets. It doesn't sound like much, but these days they're just as necessary as water or food. The buzz starts to settle, and I quickly realise how tired I am.

I sound a little bitter as I push the last one across the table and rise from my seat. "There. Have a couple of life-savers."

He looks into his hand for a moment, something processing through his mind. Then quietly, he looks up, and catches my eyes in his. Holding out his hand, he opens his palm to me. "Here."

I shake my head. "You won fair and square."

"Take 'em," he says, a little more demanding this time.

"No."

I turn to leave, but his hand catches mine and pulls me back closer than before. Skillfully, he opens my palm and empties the bullets into my hand, and shuts it tight after. His hand quickly pulls away when he's done, but he doesn't move away any furthur. Instead, he tilts his head up and watches me carefully. "Put them in yer' pocket, and don't mention it again," he orders, his voice dropped low. "Like you said. Valuable trade."

It's hard to stand still at the moment, and I tilt my head a little, trying to understand what's happening. As he watches, his eyes are sharply focused on mine. It may just be the booze, or the gravitational pull I'm getting from his stare, but I have the strangest temptation to reach out and touch him. His chest, his lips, his arms, whatever. I just want to know what he feels like, because his hands sure felt pretty nice. "Thanks."

"Now, lay yer' ass down on that there couch."

I stumble back a little, and I can feel my eyes widen. "Good Lord, you sure are quick to the punch. Sex on the first date, man!"

"What?" he asks, his voice an octave higher that normal. "Get yer' mind outta the gutter, girl. I just ain't gonna let you walk back like this, is all!"

"I'm perfectly capable of walking back to my house, thank you very much."

"And if you run into a walker?"

"Not yer' problem," I mutter, trying to imitate his thick, southern twang.

He snorts a little. "Alright, cowgirl." He grabs my wrist and pulls me over to the couch, forcing me down and grabbing a blanket from the arm. "Just sleep and be outta' here by mornin'."

"I wonder how many times you've said that to a girl."

He freezes above me. For a moment, his eyes seem to react on their own, narrowing and shifting across me. He then flings the blanket toward my face. "Shut it."

"Hey Dixon," I say, just as he's about to leave. He looks over his shoulder, but doesn't turn his whole body. "Thanks."

He gives a small nod, and lets his eyes fall to the fire. "...I still got yer' back." His voice is quiet, and I barely hear, but as he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him, I smirk a little, and let my head fall back to the soft surface.

I'm out before I hear him walk up the stairs.

* * *

><p>"Ow, fucking<em> fuck<em>."

The next morning is literally a punch in the face. My head kills.

The sun is rising and peaking through the glass into the room. It's still very early, and part of me wants nothing more than to go back to sleep, but I remember that this isn't my place. So I steal a bottle of water from one of Daryl's bags in the corner, chug every drop, and put my boots on. It's hard not to make a lot of noise when everything in the house creaks, but I somehow manage to make a speedy exit without smashing a glass or something.

The sun burns my eyes, and I can hear the roar of an engine just a few houses over. I shut the door tight, and begin to walk. Who the hell has the decency to be playing with the cars this early?

Dale, that's who.

When I find him, he's sitting in the Winnebago, frowning at the wheel and revving the engine every now and then. T-Dog and Glenn are in the front, the front grates open.

"Mornin' sunshine," T-Dog grins as I walk over.

"Hmph." I slump over the hood of Carol's cherokee, and let my head fall into my hands. The air feels good.

"Damn, you look like you got run over."

"Yeah T, that's just what a lady wants to hear."

He shrugs, and nudges Glenn's arm with his elbow. "You still look fine to me."

"That's more like it," I smile, lifting my head up. "What's up with the RV?"

"Something wrong with the breaks," Glenn replies, waving his hand up to Dale through the window.

"Fixable?"

"We'll see."

I sit around for a little while longer, watching and listening as they discuss plans of action. The fresh air is helping my head a little, and I just listen to the conversation. There's no progress on the RV for the next twenty minutes, and at one point, Shane comes out from nowhere, stomping over with a cold look on his face. When is that guy ever happy?

"What's the problem?" he asks.

"It's busted," Glenn says, patting his hand against the metal. "Might take a day or two to fix it."

"Hmm. Listen, we need someone to do a run. We're low on meds and we need to load up."

"I could go?" I say, raising my hand a little. "I feel like I could use a trip."

Shane looks over, skepticism in his features. "Who you gonna go with?"

"I can go on my own. I just need a car."

He shakes his head at that. "Nuh-uh. Can't send you out on your own."

"You found me on my own," I counter. I do not feel like making awkward conversation with someone for the rest of the morning. Besides, I'm quicker on my own.

He chuckles deeply, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Yeah, and you were halfway to death."

T-Dog lets out a low, long whistle. "You gonna take that, girl?"

I send Shane a smile. "Well, you are more than welcome to come with me, Walsh. Unless you're not comfortable enough with the idea of doing someone else's grocery shopping."

"I'm busy doin' things," Shane retorts, taking a step forward. "Tell me, what are you doin'? Apart from drinkin' and spendin' the night with rednecks?"

I can feel my face fall, and I open my mouth to tell him exactly what he can do, when another voice yells to us. "I'll go with her!" Glenn cuts in, sensing the rise in tension.

"Uh, Glenn, I need you to help me with this," Dale says, sticking his head out the window. "Why doesn't she go with Andrea?"

"I'll go."

I look across the yard and can't help but feel relief at seeing Daryl, who is walking towards us with his eyes set on the police officer. "Since yer' too damn _busy_, I'll go with her." He looks towards me, and his face softens just slightly. "I'll meet'cha out front in five." He doesn't stay, and just keeps walking past the Winnebago, kicking the dust from the ground a little.

I glance towards Shane and see him shaking his head to himself. As I walk past him, I nudge his arm a little bit, just enough to make him shift. I don't have time for people like him, never have, never will. People who see themselves above everyone else and refuse to take no for an answer. He can focus on whatever's pissing him off the whole time and leave the rest of us out of it.

I go off and find the house I left my stuff in yesterday. When I find my bag, I rumage through some of the clothes that I've been lent, and find my gun. I remember the bullets Daryl gave me, and load them in, before tucking the gun into my belt, next to the knife. Funny how most of my weapons are now things that I've been given. I started this thing with my Uncle's old shotgun, a meat knife, and I'm pretty sure I had an axe at one point. Now I'm left with a gun from Rick, bullets from Daryl, and a knife from Carl. Nothing they're ever gonna get back.

When I leave, I make my way towards the front gates. When I get there, I expect to be waiting for Daryl in a car or something. But that's not what I see when I round the corner.

You've got to be kidding me.

He's on a motorcycle. A couple of backpacks are hanging from the handles and he's turned to the side to face me. I've only ever seen in on the back of his truck or something, but I just thought we'd drive.

"You comin'?" he asks, an eyebrow raised.

I look at the bike. I doubt it's his, as the seat seems just a little too big and he has to reach a little furthur to get to the handles. Not that he doesn't look good on it, because he _really _does- I just wonder who's it actually is. "Do I get to drive?"

"Pfft, you wish." Reaching around his back, he removes his crossbow. His eyes fall to it, hesitant, but soon holds it out towards me. "Gotta' wear it for me."

I hook it across me, as I've seen him do before. It's heavier than expected, and the balance throws me off a little. Daryl always seems to move with such precision and quiet that I try and straighten my back just to make it look like I can do the same. Walking over, I wonder how to go about doing this. I've never really tried a bike before, but hey, life's too short. Especially nowadays.

As I take a moment to climb onto the back (it's pretty big compared to my size), Daryl's looking over his shoulder towards me. "Ever ride one before?"

"No." No matter how much I try and avoid it, there's a little lack of nerves laced in my voice that he seems to find amusing. Something pulls at the corner of his lip.

"Just hold tight. Try not ta' move too much."

As instructed, I fist some of the fabric of his shirt at the sides and make sure my legs are firmly where they should be. I can't imagine how heavy the damn thing is normally, let alone with another passenger. As he kick starts the engine, the sound purrs through the air. "Don't you worry about the noise?" I have to yell, just to be heard.

He gives a small shrug. "No."

"Walkers will hear."

"Who says they'll catch us?" He replies with a smirk, before kicking back the stand back and rolling forward.

As the thing starts to move, my hands tighten around the fabric, but I don't dare move any closer to him. I like my space, and I know for sure that he likes his.

When we ride, I forget about everything. All of it. The air is cool and the roads are abandoned, and I'm glad that he can't see me grinning like an idiot in the back. Boy, if we get out of this, I am getting me one of these babies. Maybe if I ask real nice, Daryl will teach me how it works sometime. He likes to drive fast, and I don't complain. It's scary but amazing at the same time, and I can't help but think that I'm so stupid for never getting doing these things when I could. I had to wait until the end of world to do cool shit like this.

We get there in around 15 minutes, finding a small roadside store. It looks empty, and Daryl pulls into the front with ease.

I can't really contain myself when he cuts the engine. "That was awesome!"

He smirks a little to himself. "Alright, don't get yer' blood pumpin'. I don't often let others ride."

I jump off first, and slip off the crossbow. He takes it from me without a word, and puts it back on. He seems more complete now, like the whole image is there. He throws me a backpack.

"I'll go first," I say, and remove the knife from my belt. He respects that, and waits back a few steps before I hear him follow. The whole thing is kinda nostialgic, and reminds me of the day I ditched the gas station and the geeks, and was found by these guys. It's the same half-assed attempt of a store, and there are gas tanks out front. A large sign in the window reads '**NO GAS LEFT. GOOD LUCK.**' in large red letters.

When I nudge the door open with my foot, I'm relieved to hear that there isn't any of that annoying bell crap that you hear in every other joint. It's silent, and it's best that way. As we enter, I can hear the metallic pull of an arrow being loaded. My hand grips the knife, and I raise my arm in an instinctive fight stance. We're both hoping that we won't have to deal with walkers, but honestly, we rarely have good days anymore.

It's a pretty small place, with only three aisles and a pharmacy counter. Daryl and I spread out, peaking into every one. When nothing happens, I relax and let my arm fall. I look over and see him climbing over the drug counter, and slinging the crossbow over his shoulder.

"I'll look for meds," he says, and disappears around the back. When I hear the rattling of bottles, I unhook the backpack and unzip. Among what's left, I manage to find some canned tomatoes, peaches, and beans. Two bottles of water and a jar of honey. Then I suddenly remember that there's something all the female residents are _dying _for, and stuff the rest of the feminine hygine products that are left into the bag. There's also a couple of screwdrivers and some extra tools that I can find which Dale might find useful. I zip it back up and leave it by the front doors, and call out to Daryl.

"I'm gonna check out back."

He doesn't reply, but I want to get this over with, so I walk down the aisle and through the 'employees only' door.

The storage is warm, and there is a foul stench of old milk and rotting eggs in the air. There is a large truck halfway out the back exit, with the front window cracked and shattered. There are blood stains across the hood, and the door is swung open with a bloody handprint dragged across the side. Someone tried to make an escape.

I stand there and stare for a moment, before hearing a distinctive moan.

"...Oh god..." I mumble, as the familiar smell hits. Around the corner, a figure emerges. A tall, large guy that would have taken many people down when he was living. Fortunately for me, I know have the upper hand. I give a small whistle, and it turns it's head towards me, and begins to snarl and hiss as it limps towards me. My knife out, I wait for it to get closer. As it approaches, I grab the back of it's head and yank it back, sticking the blade into the throat and ripping it back out again. Blood splatters across the front of me, and the walker drops down in front of my feet.

"Eugh," I mutter, wiping the blade across the leg of my jeans.

"You good?"

I spin around on my heel, and raise the blade again, but dropping it when I see Daryl. He's standing in the doorway, glaring down at the body.

"Yeah."

His eyes fall behind me, and his shoulders tense up. Before I can turn to see, he swings up his crossbow and hisses, "Get down!" I hit the floor quickly and roll over, just to see another walker take an arrow to the forehead and fall. It lands across my stomach, and I wince with my arms lifted slightly. Gross mother fucker wants to get his blood on me.

"Sit tight," Daryl's voice says, and soon after, the weight is being lifted off me as the body is being thrown across the floor.

The smell lightens up a little, and I inhale deeply before speaking again. "Thanks."

I give him a nod, but he doesn't catch it. His eyes have fallen to my stomach which is now exposed as the blood sticks the fabric of my t-shirt together. In a heartbeat, he's on the ground, lifting it up, revealing more skin. I jump as one of his hands holds my waist, and the other tugs at the material. For a second, my heart picks up and I have no clue what the hell he's doing. With his icy eyes and stone cold glare, I swear for a moment that he's planning on doing me right here, right on the ground. "Hey! What the f-" But he stops soon, and eventually just stares down at the skin of my stomach and just above my hips.

It then hits me like a cold wave of water as to what he's looking at, and I freeze under his touch. His eyes are set like stone on his view, and he doesn't even blink as I begin to struggle. "Get off me," I demand, but he holds down tight and it's hard for me to break out. I try and press my hands against his shoulders.

When he speaks, his voice is low. Darkened with something hidden that I can't understand. "Who di-"

"Don't fucking touch me!" I cry in a panic, beginning to kick away his hands.

When he hears the distress in my voice, he quickly lets go, and holds his hands up in front of him. "Okay, relax." His voice is quiet now, perhaps at an attempt to calm me, but it fails miserably. "What-"

"Just don't!" I snap, feeling the rage running through my veins, hot and burning. Scrambling up from the ground, I tug my shirt back down and bend down to grab my knife. "We're leaving. Now."


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead**

**Thanks for all your reviews! Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>I don't speak to Daryl on the way back. I just hold the fabric of his shirt tightly and bite my lip to stop from screaming. Inside me, there is a train wreck of thought filled with panic and anger and everything inbetween. I have to swallow down whatever painful lump arrives in my throat at the thought of what will happen when we get back.<p>

When we get back, he drives right up to the main house, where Glenn and Dale are now the only ones left, still working on the Winnebago. When he cuts the engine, I get off and tear the crossbow from my back and throw it towards him. He catches it skillfully in his hands, and slips off the seat, walking towards me.

"Hold up! We gotta talk!" he orders, following me when I start to walk away.

"Leave me alone."

"Hey-" He grabs my wrist, and pulls me back towards him. I'm staring up towards his eyes, just inches away now while he glares back down. "_I said_ we gotta talk."

"Not. Interested." I snatch my wrist back from him, and storm off in the other direction, relieved when I don't hear him follow.

I walk around for several minutes before I reach my house, where I go into and slam the door shut which echoes through the walls. It's there that I collapse, my back against the wall and sliding down until I hit the floor. My hand flies up to my mouth to silence a muffled cry. Something hot and wet burns at the back of my eyes, and I shut them tightly.

No. I will not let this take hold of me. Not again.

"Shut up, shut up," I mutter to myself, slamming my head back into the hard wood of the door.

There's something sharp and painful that makes my heart ache, and it's a familiar feeling that I'd hoped to never come across again. Fuck you, Dixon. Fuck everything.

No tears fall, and I'm glad for it. I'm not going to let this throw me off. Nobody needs to know about anything. I doubt Daryl will tell anyone what he saw, and even so, he'll probably never bring it up again if I give him time to forget. Deep down, he doesn't give a shit about me.

Good thing, too.

Minutes pass, and when I get the strength to pick myself up again, I drag myself from the ground and slowly across the front hall to the mirror that hangs in the entrance of the living room. With shaking hands, I lift up the material of my shirt, just like he had done.

"Son of a bitch."

Just as I expect. Nothing that can be hidden. A shudder runs down my spine as I cast my eyes towards the scars that mark my skin, all the way from the top of my stomach, down to my hips, and just around my back. Large, red marks from belts. Smaller, thinner ones from broken glass. Skin where the colour is abnormally dark from bruises that never quite healed. All gathered around the same areas, places where they couldn't be seen through clothing. Not until today at least.

I quickly tug it back down again, unable to look any more. No point, really. Nothing I can do now but try and forget.

A large exhale escapes me as I run a hand over my face.

The day isn't even half over yet, and already it's turning out to suck.

* * *

><p>"You don't miss it? Not even a little?"<p>

"No, not really. I never liked it to begin with."

Carl swings his feet in the air as the swing seat lifts into the air once more. In the yard of one of the corner houses, there's a playground of yard furniture that Carl seems pretty attached to. There's a large wooden swing seat that's nice for today, and swinging in the breeze is completely relaxing. He's not wearing his little Rick hat today, and it makes him seem a lot younger for some reason.

It's hours after the incident, and I'm glad to say that I haven't seen Daryl since then. I spent the afternoon helping Lori sort through the food and helping Carol with the laundry. Normally I wouldn't even be near something that dull, but I wanted to keep to myself as much as possible, and Carol is quiet enough to create a comfortable working silence between us.

Carl had found me a couple of hours later and wouldn't take 'leave me alone' for an answer.

"When I was your age, I hated school," I say, laying on my back to stare up at the sky. "The kids were mean, the food sucked, and don't even get me started on the teachers."

He shrugs. "The kids were alright. I had a few good friends. But the teachers all seemed like they had sticks up their-"

I peak open one eye and point my finger towards him. "Watch your mouth, Kid. I don't wanna get in trouble. Your mom might think I'm a bad influence."

"You _are _a bad influence."

"True."

Another new voice breaks through into the conversation. "Hey kid."

When I open my eyes, Carl's facing the other direction, sending a rather forced smile towards Daryl, who's stomping over with a purpose. I guess it's a kids-always-have-to-be-polite-thing. I hold back a string of curses that threaten to escape.

"What do you want?" comes out instead. It doesn't slow him down, and instead, he looks at Carl and sticks his thumb in the other direction.

"Why don't ya go help yer' Mom?" he says as he stops.

Carl frowns. "That's boring. I'm talking to Lyla."

"Beat it," Daryl retorts, flicking the back of Carl's ear. Carl jumps, and glares into the ground as he slides away and jogs across the yard.

I sit up and scowl at the hunter, who just folds his arms tightly across himself. I reach down and begin to put on my discarded boots. "Look, Dixon, I'm not really in the mood right now."

"Well, I am."

When I've laced them up, I stand and begin to walk away. "Leave me alone."

His hand whips out and wraps around my upper arm. "I just wanna talk." His voice is softer than before. More gentle than the demanding tone he took eariler. Maybe he senses it. The discomfort that I'm now feeling around him. I feel exposed and open to attack, something I've tried so hard to avoid. His thumb runs along the skin of my arm, whether he knows it or not.

I can't reason with him in anything other than anger. Tugging my arm from his grip and glaring into his eyes. "Yeah well, I just want a million dollars, but that ain't happening anytime soon."

"Who did that to you?" he asks, ignoring my previous statement. He stands just a few feet above me, but he seems to tower. I can see some dirt smeared onto his skin, and my mind wonders briefly to what he looks like without any dirt or blood. Probably very different. But his eyes would be the same, always.

I suddenly realise that I've been staring at him for too long, and that he's still staring down at me with an unmerciful expectancy.

"How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone?!" I quickly yell. "Can't you get it through your dumbass head that I don't want to talk to you?!"

His face snaps back into a familiar rage. "Listen here girl-"

There's a hestitant cough, and we both snap our heads around.

"What?!" we yell, his thick southern drawl mixed with my more gentle one.

Glenn, like a startled deer, steps back and clutches his rifle closer to his chest, his eyes wide. I hear Daryl forcefully exhale next to me, and I stare at Glenn, silently begging him to speak.

He swallows. "Guys? You might wanna take a look."

Daryl stomps off first, pushing past Glenn with a huff, and I follow a few steps after. Part of me doesn't know why this bothers Dixon so much. It's none of his business, and he doesn't seem like the type to get involved in what isn't his problem.

I'll never be able to tell Glenn how thankful how I am for his interruption.

"What the hell?" I hear before rounding the corner, Glenn on my heels.

Outside an abandoned garage, Shane, and Andrea are standing outside the shut door, guns loaded and shifting on their feet. Andrea looks tense, with her eyes narrowed and worried. Shane's stalking around, his eyes set firmly on the door, occasionally stopping and tilting his head towards it slightly. I'm about to ask what the fuss is about, but I can hear it just fine as we get closer.

From what seems like the inside of the garage, there are some scratching sounds accompanied by low moans. It sounds like walkers, which would make some amount of sense, but there would have to be a heck of a lot in there to be making that much sound. The rusted metal of the doors shakes and squeals like the scratching of a chalkboard.

Shane stands still for a moment, his eyes watching the entrance. After some silent deliberation, he steps forward and reaches down toward the handle.

"Shane, don't," Andrea says, stepping forward a little. Her face is twisted into uncertainty, and she watches the officer as he moves.

He shrugs in return, paying no mind to the rest of us. "Gotta clear out." He reaches down and tugs on the handle, with no success the first time.

I grip the gun tighter in my hand. There is probably nothing there, but still, I don't want to be caught out with a couple of walkers.

Glenn next to me seems to shift a little. There is a quiet tension around us that shares the same distaste at this little hiccup in an otherwise good setting. We haven't encountered walkers head on in a few days. Seems like forever.

He tries again, this time, managing to yank it open. The door opens with a horrible screeching sound that makes my spine shiver.

The next sound I hear is a scream. I don't remember who, because everything suddenly clicks into fast motion, and bodies turn into blurs and sounds blend together. Growls of feral anger suddenly rip through the air. Someone grabs my arm painfully tight and tugs me away, pushing me in the other direction, and I begin to run.

No, _sprint._

It's not walkers.

Not even one.

I know without a second glance that we're running from dogs.


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead.**

**Thank you so much for all the amazing reviews. It means a lot to know that you guys are reading this and enjoying it. Have a good week!**

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><p>"Run!"<p>

"Don't look back!"

The voices of the others are ringing in my ears distantly, along with the desperate pounding of feet along the ground. I don't even stop to think about what's happening, and just keep forcing my feet to fall one in front of the other as fast as I can. Every fibre of my brain is screaming at me to keep going, because if I stop, I'm dead. Behind me, there are barks and growls, sounding much more terrifying and able than that of walkers. There must be at least five or six of them.

I can see Shane and Andrea running ahead of me, and as the road splits, Shane disappears down one side, and Andrea down another. Panic hits me like a train. Why are they splitting up? Where should I go? I can's slow down for a second because it sounds like those are _big fucking_ mutts behind me. The fear is running cold through my veins, and it feels strange. It's like a childlike anxiety about the monsters under your bed, except they're not under your bed anymore. They're running after you, hungry as hell. They don't sound like dogs anymore, just vicious and wild creatures.

I badly want to look behind, just for a heartbeat, to check whether they're infected.

Before I can, a hand, maybe the same one as before, pushes me forward.

"Go! Get outta here!" a vaguely familar voice says, but my mind won't slow down to process it.

I take a sharp left when I reach the fork in the sidewalk, seperating myself from where the others had gone. I stop hearing voices behind me, so every source in my body begins to scream that I'm alone. I also stop hearing the growling, which gives me a small sense of hope, but I keep running.

I don't know how long I run for. Maybe I'm going in circles, because the estate sure didn't feel as big as this. It never seemed as much a maze. The muscles in my legs are burning now, and my breaths are sharp and painful in the back of my throat. If I don't stop soon, I'll pass out.

I almost trip taking a sudden turn into a yard, but I manage to duck quickly into the narrow space between two houses. I push myself hard against the brick wall, trying to hold back the short, shallow breaths. Everything seems to fall into a dead silence.

_Oh god. _I don't know where anyone is. Someone might be dead. Maybe more than one.

A small yelp escapes me as I hear barking in the distance.

No. No, I have to pull it together. Do what I can.

I look to my right, and see a few discarded trash cans. Trying to stop my hands from shaking, I slip my gun in my back pocket and bend down to lift one up. Looking upwards, the roof of the garage seems low enough for me to reach, but high enough to avoid dogs. I try and get it as steady as I can, before reaching up and grabbing hold of a water pipe. When I lift myself up, I can't quite reach the edge of the roofing, and have to step back down again.

I feel my spine freeze over as the barking seems to become louder.

In a daze of alarm, I push myself up, trying to reach again with no success. The same buzz begins to run through my veins as the creature seems to come closer, maybe just a road away.

In realisation, I jump, and grab hold of the piping. Underneath, the trash can falls and crashes to the ground. The noise echoes and crashes through the air unbelieveably loud.

"Shit!"

My feet scrape against the wall, trying to find something to stand on. Nothing.

When I hear other trash cans make the same sound, I don't even have to wait for the growling to realise that I've been found. I cast my eyes down and finally catch a real view of what we've been running from.

This mutt is so far beyond identifiable it's crazy. I have no idea what breed it even is. Fur hangs in clumps and greying strands around it's body, and it's eyes are a dulled grey that makes it look like some sort of hellhound. Dried blood stains around it's teeth in a sickening wash, while strands of thick drool and some yellowing substance drips from it's bared teeth. It's large, too big for me to try and take with a weapon. This isn't a family pet anymore. It's a complete and utter monster.

This thing is probably going to kill me.

With a brutal snarl, it begins throwing itself against the wall, and I lift my legs up as high as I can.

Either the pipe will break first, or my arms will give out.

Something, probably it's nose, bumps against my foot and I lift myself higher, wincing when my arms shake.

"Get away from me!" I yell, slamming my boot down onto it's head. It only makes it angrier, and I instantly regret the decision as it begins to bark furiously. If it keeps doing, it'll attract more of it's buddies.

The pipe begins to creak, and when I look up, I can't even yell out. My throat seems to seize up, and I can't even loosen my hands around the metal.

I shut my eyes tightly, waiting for the break.

Waiting for the fall.

When the space between the houses seems to shatter with the sound of a metallic ring, I don't open my eyes.

When there's a painful whimper and thud below me, I still don't open my eyes.

I don't open them when I hear quick footsteps and a familiar and completely welcomed voice mumble, "It's gone."

I only can open them when I feel a pair of strong hands gently place themselves on on my hips. "I gotcha."

I reach down and place my trembling hands on his, easing myself down to the ground. His hands loosen, but don't drop completely as I twist around to face him. I have every intention to thank him, but when I see his eyes searching mine, I find that my voice has gone again.

"You're alive," I manage to say, and he looks a little taken back by the statement.

"You think a couple a' dogs gonna take me down?" he says, kicking the shoulder of the animal with his boot.

"Guess not." I can barely bring myself to continue looking at him when I ask, "The others?"

"I don't know." His head lowers, and his voices drops into a mumble. One of his hands tightens around my hips for less than a heartbeat, and it's so quick, I doubt it really happened. "Came to find ya."

My eyes drop past his shoulder to the now still body. A single arrow lays clean through it's head.

I don't know what to say to that. If he hadn't of come, then I'd be being chewed on right now. Now I feel like a bitch for getting into it with him eariler.

The barking begins again, and it causes Daryl's head to snap up, his eyes narrowing into a mode of survival.

"We gotta move," he says quickly, a hand dropping down to my wrist. He bends down and rips the arrow from the dog, and swings his crossbow across his shoulder. He takes off then, forcing us from the safety of the hiding place into the open yards. He begins to run, and I don't know where we're going, but his hand tight around my wrist forces me to keep up.

He begins running down the road, towards one of the empty houses. When I realise that he wants to hide, I stop dead in the middle of the road, nearly being pulled off my feet when he turns to face me.

"Come on!" he yells, tugging on my arm.

I pull back. "We need to find Rick and the others. They might not know what's going on!"

"Yeah, I will- After gettin' you outta my way!"

The hell? "You need my help!" I snap back. "Come on, we have to go now!"

He pauses for a heartbeat, his eyes boring into mine. Something quietly comes to resolution in his head, and he eventually nods. "Fine. Cover me." He drops his hand and grabs his crossbow.

I pull out my gun and take off the safety, starting to follow when Daryl begins to run. We're going to start loosing daylight soon, as the sun is already beginning to sink into the sky.

While running, Daryl holds his hand up suddenly, and waves it behind him. We both run and duck behind a large car, knees digging harshly into the ground. I move up just enough to peek through the window to the other side, where a blurred black animalistic shadow moves slowly down the road.

"Don't get me get killed," I hear Daryl whisper. I don't know what he means, and before I can ask, he suddenly stands and begins to walk out into the open. My breath becomes tangled in my throat, and I can't even call him back.

"Come an' get it!" he yells, waving his arms in the air. I can hear a growl, a bark, and the sudden sound of paws banging against the gravel. Shit, _shit._

I rise from the ground a little, swinging my gun up to aim just before Daryl. Can't miss, can't fire too late.

As soon as I see a mass of red stained fur, I pull the trigger. The creature lunges into the air towards Daryl and whimpers when the small thud of contact echoes through the air. The body still rams against Daryl, and I see him hit the floor with a large pile of fur covering him.

I push myself up from the ground and start running. "Shit." I can't see if the mutt is moving or not, but Daryl isn't either. That's just as bad. "Daryl?! Daryl!"

When I skid onto my knees, I lift my hands under the dog and push it over as best as I can. It's heavy, and with some difficulty, I manage to push it onto the floor. Relief hits as soon as Daryl sits up slowly, his hands wiping bits of dog hair that have fallen into him. He looks up to my with an elevated eyebrow. "Nice shot."

I offer him a hand, and he clasps his with mine as we both stand together. "We gotta move. They probably heard that."

When we're up, we begin running again. I think we're almost there, but every step seems slower than it should.

When we at long last reach the house, it looks deserted. I look over and see Daryl's face fall a little, but he pulls it together and scans his eyes around. "Go, go!" he hisses. We run up the steps, feeling out of breath and energy. I slam my fist down on the door, praying that someone is in there. That not everyone was outside at the time of the attack.

A few seconds pass too slowly, and we're about to admit to defeat, when it swings open into the darkness of the house. I feel one of Daryl's hands shove me inside.

While my eyes adjust to the light, I hear the door slam again behind me, and soon I see Rick ahead of me, his chest rising and falling with large breaths.

"Daryl! Lyla! What the hell is goin' on?!" Rick yells, rage beginning to form in his features. Behind him, an out of breath Shane sits on an armchair, his hands on his knees and panting heavily. Beside him, Lori is sitting on the arm, rubbing his shoulder with concern. "We heard some yellin'. Shane just got back, but we can't make sense of him."

"Dogs. Five or four." Daryl's face turns cold with intensity. "They're infected."

I watch as the words sink in with Rick, and his face drops into nothing, his eyes growing clouded with the sharp hit of fear.

"Did anyone else make it back?" I ask, trying to hide the pleading tone slipping through my voice. The image of Glenn or Andrea becoming a human chew toy makes me want to puke right there on the carpet.

Rick stops his pacing, but his head remains lowered, and he shakes it gravely. "Just Shane." His voice is quiet. "Dale and Carol are out there too."

It's then that Lori stands from her seat, and begins walking towards me. After watching me for a second or so, her pace quickens, and when she reaches me, her eyes are searching my face frantically.

"Lyla," she says, raising a hand towards me. "_Where _is Carl?"

It's a beat later that I make sense of her words, and I can feel my heart quicken under my chest. "...He's not here?"

Lori's arms drop limply to her sides, and her face falls into utter dispair. "...He...He was with you."

Shit.

Oh shit.

"He..he was," my voice is coming out quietly now, and the cracks in the words are echoing through the room with deafening silence. "He was going to come home. That must have been an hour ago!"

"Oh god," Lori gasps, her hand flying up to her heart. Her torso bends over a little, and she's staring at the ground now. For a moment I think she's going to throw up. Hell, I might.

"C...Carl's out there?" Rick echoes, his voice higher and sounding frail with disbelief.


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead.**

**Thanks for all the great reviews, everyone. They're much appreciated and very inspiring. **

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><p>Shit.<p>

Oh holy shit.

Lori is now gaping at me wide-eyed, horror and hatred all filling her face in one swift motion.

If Carl never came home, then who's to say that he's still alive?

He was with me last. I should have made sure he got home safely. He wouldn't know what to do. A walker he could handle, but those dogs? Those huge, angry, hungry dogs that are running rampant around the estate? There's nowhere to hide, and who knows how far away he could be from the house at this point. Something cold and heavy hits my chest with painful impact. It might be guilt, or fear, but I can't tear myself from Lori's eyes for long enough to work it out.

Rick's head falls to the ground, and his arms seem to jerk wildly, a small groan escaping his lips. It's almost as if he's about to lose control completely.

Air rushes in and out of Lori's lips, and she begins to sound like she's drowing. "My son is out there?! Oh god, what if-" Her voice comes out high, and slightly breathless.

At hearing her, Rick snaps back into himself, and straightens his back to face her. His hand flies gently to her arm. "Lori, it's okay. We'll find him."

"But-"

"We'll find him," he says again, this time more firmly. They both look to each other in a private gaze. As I watch, my stomach seems to tighten into a hard ache. What if we find him in pieces? Or worse, what if we don't find him at all?

Daryl doesn't let the thickening silence in the room stop him, as he turns towards me and loads a new arrow into the crossbow. "Alright, Lyla and I will make a round, pick up the strays and clear some mutts. If anyone comes back, keep 'em here."

At the mention of my name, everything seems to come back to me. I look over to him, and he's staring back at me, his eyes fixed on mine. Probably wants to make sure I'm still in the land of the living.

Rick's head turns towards Lori and Shane for a brief moment of hesitation, but when he turns, his shoulders are straightened, and his hand is reaching into his belt to pull out his handgun. "I'm comin'. You need more firepower."

Shane shifts in the chair, and pushes himself up onto his feet. "I'm goin'," he says, but his knee gives way and he keels over into the side of the chair. Lori turns and reaches a shaking hand to his shoulder.

"You're hurt, you have to stay," she demands, her voice finding it's way back to her. "We'll wait for the others."

"You expect me to just sit here?"

"That's exactly what I expect you to do," she snaps, firmly pushing him back down into his seat.

"Okay," I breath, forcing my heart to slow to a calmer pace. "Last we saw, Andrea, Shane and Glenn were by the garage." I look over to Shane, who's watching me with his head hung low. "You're here, and I saw you and Andrea run down different paths. Did you see Glenn?"

After a moment of thought, he shakes his head slowly. "I turned around to look for someone, but you'd all gone. Got chased by a mutt."

Daryl turns his head to Rick. The thought quickly ripples through my mind that he never addresses Shane. Just Rick. "I think I saw Glenn duck down the road towards the gates."

"You didn't follow him?"

"No, I went for her," he replies sharply, motioning towards me with the end of an arrow.

Rick looks towards me, lifting his eyes up and down. "Neither of you are hurt? Bit?"

"No," I reply quickly.

"We're losin' daylight," Daryl interjects, moving towards the front door. "Gotta move if we wanna have the upper hand against those hounds..." He leans forward and peaks out the curtain slowly, and I watch his eyes swiftly focus across the front. "We're clear for now."

"Let's go." Rick grabs his jacket hanging from the wall, and after placing it on himself tightly, he turns to Lori and sends her one last calming gaze. "We'll find him. And the others."

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><p><em>4 Dogs.<em>

_7 People._

The statistics are running through a loop in my head, getting louder and louder each time. It seems impossible.

The air feels colder as we run through the estate, seemingly cutting against my skin.

"T-Dog?" Daryl asks, his voice just above a whisper as we duck behind a car. I'm just behind him, ready to reach out and yank him back if he plans on jumping out again.

Rick shakes his head. "Last I saw he was by the RV. Still tryin' to fix those stupid brakes."

I look towards his paling face. "I can head out there, see if he's stayed put."

"Nuh-uh, no way." Daryl's voice is sharp and cutting. "We ain't splittin' up. Gonna be dark soon."

I look towards him, confusion lacing my features. He's a hunter, he knows which is the better option for a search party. "We'll cover more ground. Might find people quicker."

He suddenly turns on his heel, facing me just inches away. "Either that or we'll lose more."

Annoyance and impatience begins to bubble inside me. Why is he wasting time arguing? We've worked together just fine on a hunt, but he chooses now to disagree? I try and mustle up a glare to match his.

"Fine. We'll split up now, then after the sun has gone down, we'll meet back up. Better?" My voice comes out rough and bitter, enough to make him look back at me with a mild face of contempt.

"Okay, enough!" Rick hisses, his face contorting into anger. "Now's not the time to disagree with our methods. Daryl, how do we do this?"

Daryl looks behind my shoulder towards Rick for a few beats, before lowering his face back down to mine. I desperately want to go and search already. The guilt of Carl is already weighing me down, and the impact of what a violent death would do to the group is nothing I exactly want to think about. He knows which way is more effective.

"The minute the sun goes down, we meet by that house there-" He turns and points to one of the far houses. "-The one with the sundial." When he turns back, his eyes are cold and narrowed. "I'll be there for ten minutes, and if you ain't back, then you're dead."

Rick nods, and before anyone can say anything else, he's taking a run in the other direction, out of our eyes and past a house. I stand and cast Daryl a brisk look of thanks. He didn't undermine me in front of Rick.

"Don't get distracted," he says, an eyebrow elevated at me.

After a beat of silence, I turn around and speak just loud enough for him to hear my mutter. "Just be at the sundial, Dixon."

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><p>It's about half an hour after we've split up that I begin to think that there's a very real possiblity that I might never see Daryl or Rick again.<p>

For some reason, that really bothers me. More so than it normally would. I try and ignore the fact that it's Daryl that worries me the most.

It's the same thought that has crossed my mind several times over the past few days. He's saved my ass multiple times, and I owe him. He interests me, pisses me off, and makes everything seem a little lighter all at the same time. When he ran into the road and counted on me to shoot that mutt, I panicked that I wouldn't be able to. He thinks we have a good dynamic, and all I want to do is survive by any means necessary.

This is what I was afraid of. I make a point of never getting too attatched to any group I come across, especially one person. But Daryl is starting to seem less and less like someone I've bumped into, and more like a someone that I need. A friend, a partner to have my back, something that I've never had in my life.

He certainly seems different to how he was when I met him. Although it feels ridiculous to think that he might feel the same way, the looks he gives and the things he does makes him appear like a changed person. There's more to him than what meets the eye.

In sudden realisation of the thoughts that have been running through my mind, I snap myself out of it. I have to focus on the task at hand.

No use in getting all fussed in something that won't be here in a week at the most.

When I reach the Winnebago, I'm disappointed to find that it's empty. After searching it inside and out, I hope that maybe someone will be nearby. "T-Dog?" I ask aloud, just above a whisper. "...Anyone here?"

The silence is eerie, and I look towards the sky to see the last trickles of the sun streaming over the rooftops. It'll be dark soon, and I'll need to be at the meet up spot. Dammit.

Maybe T-Dog went back to the house. Or the place where he's been sleeping. Still, the fact that the RV is as empty as anything is a little unnerving.

I turn to leave the area, but something echos in the distance that I can't place. My fingers grip tighter around my gun, and I listen out.

I can't quite make out what the sound is until it gets louder.

Feet. Paws. Pounding against the pavement.

Someone yells something. I can't hear the words, but the voice sounds familiar.

_"Help! Help- AH!"_

Dale.

My legs are moving before my head can figure everything out, and soon, I'm sprinting down the path.

If I can get to him in time, then I can help. Maybe he knows where everyone else is. Dale probably can't defend himself on his own.

He had no idea about the dogs, and is probably being chased now.

When the thought clicks, I run around the corner before I can stop myself, I let out a small yell of horror. "Dale!"

The ground skids to a stop below me as I almost collapse at the sight.

Dale is running- well, half running. He's out of breath and almost tripping over himself. Just feet behind him, a large, black and grey hound is sprinting after him, creating the same ferocious growling sound that had come from the others.

The instinct is immediate. My hand flies up, and my fingers tremble as I try and flick back the safety. My eyes fall down to the gun as a furious hiss escapes my lips.

The pained scream ripples through the air and makes my spine freeze.

There's also the sound of something else. I hate to think of it, but it almost sounds like silk tearing.

When I look up, Dale is now on the ground, the nose of a dog buried deep, too deep, into his stomach. His claws are scratching furiously against his chest, and blood pours from the torn skin, seeping onto the ground in a horrific image. Dale is screaming now, but it can barely be heard over the verocious growling and knawing of the mutt on top of him.

"Dale, no!" I yelp, not able to hold back the horror in my voice. I begin to run, fearless against the fact that the creature might turn on me. I swing up my arm and fire a shot, then another, straight into the mutt's chest. It jerks and whimpers, falling to the ground beside Dale in a bloody heap.

When I get my way to Dale, I drop to the ground and cast my eyes over the gaping wound. Something red and thick spills through the fabric of his shirt, and I don't think that it's purely blood. "Hey!" I snap my fingers in front of his face, which is pale and pained. His eyes frantically search the air until they meet mine.

"Dale! Talk to me!" I say over the sounds of his moans and quiet cries. The wound is too deep for me to fix. For anyone to fix. Half of his stomach is ripped to pieces. "Oh god, oh shit..."

"H-Hel-" He whines, breaking off into an anguished cry.

What do I say? How can I make this better?

A weight hits the ground beside me, and I spin around, prepared to rip the head off whatever dares come near us at this point. It's only Daryl, skidding to the ground beside me, and placing his crossbow down on the dirt. His eyes frantically search Dale's mangled body. "What happened?"

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out but a small gasp of air. The smell of blood is stinging my nostrils, and the only thought that I can process apart from the fact that Dale is bleeding out right in front of us is the fact that someone else might be in this exact position. Maybe more than one.

A pair of hands grab at my shoulder, and I look around to see Daryl watching me with narrow eyes. "Lyla! Keep it together, girl." His fingers dig harshly into my shoulder, and I shrug him away, nodding my head.

"That thing," I mutter, nodding my head towards the still body of the dog. "Caught up to him."

"Dale, you hear me?" Daryl asks. Dale doesn't respond, just continuing the pattern of movement, pain, and the gasping out.

"We can't take him back to the house," I breath. "They'd smell the blood trail."

"Ain't nothin' to stop it now," Daryl mutters under his breath, gently running his hand across the stomach wound. Dale squirms and groans under his touch. He looks towards me past his shoulder. "You get what needs ta' be done, right?"

I look down into Dale's contorted face. His breathing is fast and shallow, and his hands are shaking unlike anything I've ever seen. Tears are beginning to brim in the corners of his eyes from the pain. Suddenly, his torso jerks upwards, and both Daryl and I reach forward to hold his shoulders down. Something unspoken crosses between us as Dale cries out.

The thought suddenly occurs that either we end this now, or Dale will come back.

In the distance, a howl echoes through the air. Daryl and I look upwards to the sky, which is now a dark blue and dotted with grey clouds that shadows over the moon. Rick will be at the meeting spot now, with or without the others. I look towards Daryl, who's staring down at the trembling body with a hard stare, seemingly lost in a thought. "He's dying," I say at an attempt to pull him back into the present.

He lets his eyes flick towards Dale's face then, and the two watch each other for a few seconds. A cold wind rushes through the air as Daryl begins to move. He reaches behind him, and pulls out his gun.

There's a moment of panic inside me. I reach out and place my hand around the barrel of the gun. Daryl and Dale must have known each other for far longer than I have known either of them. He shouldn't have to have that weight on his shoulders. "Wait, you don't have to do that."

Without bringing his gaze back from Dale, Daryl gently reaches up and pushes my hand away. I can feel the warm blood slipping from his hand to mine. "I'll do it." His voice is quietly dark.

He pauses for a moment, and I realise that he's waiting for me to leave. I look down towards Dale, who's staring at me now, his eyes wide and fearful. As I bring myself up from my knees, I reach down and squeeze his arm softly. There's no goodbye I can muster. I've seen people die before, and as bitter as it sounds, Dale is just another mark on the wall. A nice man, and probably someone I'll remember the name of in a few months from now.

I'll definitely remember this night.

Grabbing my gun once more, I stand up and take a few steps back, turning away from the both of them. I glance into the darkness ahead, thinking of how scared the others must be. These poor, lost people that have no idea what has just happened. Who they are about to lose forever.

The sound of a safety being pulled back clicks into the night, and behind me, I just hear the quiet mumble.

"...Sorry, brother."

A second later, the sound of gunfire rings out.

Dale's quiet whimpers go quiet.

I don't turn around just yet, and I wait to hear something else. Daryl speaking, maybe. However, he says nothing as he stands, wipes his bloody hand against his shirt, and walks towards me.

There's nothing to say. I can't comfort Daryl. I don't even know if he's hurting or something. They weren't family, and Daryl doesn't seem to give a rat's ass about anyone that doesn't personally effect him. I glance towards his face out of the corner of my eye, and see that he remains cold and calm as ever.

"Can't leave his body. It might get..." Eaten? The thought is sickening. It's obvious that it crosses Daryl's mind too by the way he reaches up and rubs his hand slowly across his face. "...You know."

"They'll wanna bury him," he says, glancing over his shoulder. "We bury our people."

I nod in silence.

How many graves are going to have to be dug by morning?

Beside me, Daryl turns and walks back towards Dale. I follow him, and when I cast my eyes down onto the pale face, blood spills from between the clouded eyes.

Without warning, it floods back to me.

It must have been a couple of months before I joined this particular crew, I was making my way around for a few days with a group I met just outside the city. A nice bunch of people, if not a little lacking in survival knowledge. One of the worst groups I'd seen. There was one girl in particular, must have been about 15 at the most. If I remember correctly, I think her name was Claire. Maybe Clarissa. Either way, she had the brightest green eyes I ever saw, and was just about the happiest person you could find at the end of the world.

Anyway, she was moving along with this group with her stepmother and father. Nice enough people, but they were sticking to the whole 'things will get better' theory, which of course, is complete bullshit. I remember the day quite clearly. A couple of the group and I went for a supply run, including the father. I don't wanna get into the details of it, but at the end of the day, three out of five who had gone came back to the camp. I was one of them, and the father was the other. Only not all of him made it back. It was just about half of him. If that.

I had to watch as they treated him and made him drink and eat. Fuck, he was in so much pain. They were idiots, trying to salvage hope from something that couldn't be saved. For hours, they made him live through his agonising last moments. The young girl, his daughter, was _begging _them to put him out of his misery.

Nobody could do it. I said I would, but they warned me not to go near him.

When this guy finally died, I swear, his daughter had lost every single one of her smiles.

She had to watch him drown in blood and fear, and there was nothing anybody would do about it. I don't know what happened to her; I left a few days after. All I know is that she might have had a little something left inside her if her father had gone quickly and with some peace.

I look at Daryl, who's gently lifting Dale's legs from the ground, with care and precision. He'd just done what nobody else at that old camp had the nerve to do. A hundred things hit me at once, but respect is the one that sticks. This redneck, the guy who was pissed at me the first time we met, cares about who he's with. Even if he doesn't want to.

Even if he doesn't know it.

I quickly make my way over, and lift Dale's arms. When we both have him lifted from the ground, Daryl looks up at me. His piercing eyes are observant, watching me as we begin to move. Dale's body feels limp and like a heavy weight. We make our way towards the nearest house, and when we finally get there, Daryl opens the door and we move in.

We place him gently on the floor, and Daryl is the only one of us that looks back as we leave, shutting the door behind us.

When we walk across the yard, there's a thick tension in the air. Daryl turns his head a little to survey me, and I keep my eyes dead ahead, only looking towards him when we reach the road. I'm about to ask him what we do next, but there's something odd in his eyes that makes me go quiet. His hands are fisted weakly, and his sharp eyes are moving across my face.

He opens his mouth to speak, but a shrill shriek from the distance cuts between the both of us.

_"Help! Someone!"_

We both snap into instinct. We both run into the road, weapons at the ready, scanning the darkness for signs of movement. "Who is that?" I ask, the voice sounding too panicked and rushed for me to indentify.

_"Help!"_

Daryl's confused expression switches in a heartbeat. He glances towards me and gestures to the East, already beginning to run towards the cries.

"Carol."


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead.**

**As always, reviews are always loved and greatly appreciated. Have a good weekend!**

* * *

><p>Carol's screams are still echoing through the air as we run towards the source of her voice. The sharp, metallic smell of Dale's blood is still lingering in the air, and I quietly hope that we won't witness another death tonight.<p>

Daryl is just a few feet away from me, and I can keep up just fine, only my legs are tiring now and everything seems to rush by in a strange haze. I almost think I'm hallucinating when I spot something from the corner of my eye that makes me trip and land hard on the ground.

Hearing the thump, Daryl turns and begins to run back towards me. I jump up before he can reach me and run towards what made me fall in the first place.

"What? We gotta-"

Daryl's voice fades out in my ears, and I can barely breath as I begin to realise that it's real.

Clear as day, right there, on the ground in front of me. A brown hat that I'd seen Carl wearing so many times before.

When I reach down and pick it up, Daryl grows quiet too. I stare down at it with a cold feeling running through my veins. When my eyes snap back up, I'm already moving, searching the dark street ahead.

"CARL!" I yell, hearing my voice breaking in the silence. "CA-"

A warm hand flies up and wraps around my mouth. "Shh!"

I roughly push Daryl away, gripping the hat so tight that my knuckles whiten. "He's here! He has to be-"

"Lyla-"

"CARL!"

Daryl storms ahead, stepping in front of me. "You gotta shut up!" he hisses. "They'll hear!" It's the harsh, unforgiving look in his eyes that makes me stop and assess the situation. He wants me to focus and not loose my head. There's also something else in his eyes that's odd on him. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was something akin to concern. Worry for the person that's supposed to have his back who seems to be going crazy.

The thought hits me like a ton of bricks.

Shit. I'm losing it.

Never before have I stressed myself out so much over a missing person. I've seen kids get bit, lost, never come back. People die, and that's the end of it. Why does the idea of losing Carl get to me this much?

Something becomes clear in my mind. Getting Carl home to his family is my priority right now, and as bad as it sounds, he's counting on me more than Carol is. I have to bring him back. I can do that on my own while Daryl gets her. "You go get Carol, I'm gonna stay and look." My voice is hurried and panicked, and I turn to leave him before the words have even left my mouth.

I'm stopped when his hand flies out and grasps my wrist tightly, yanking me back. When I look over to him in question, he's fixated on me with a watchful glare. "You ain't goin' nowhere," he declares. "We're stickin' together."

That pisses me off. Feeling helpless and out of my own control are two things I cannot stand more than anything. "Fuck you, Dixon! You can't tell me what to do."

"Watch me," he retorts, rolling his eyes a little. Asshole.

"You better let me go right now, you mindless dick."

"What you gonna do 'bout it?" he challenges, already beginning to drag me towards the rest of the path.

A thought crosses my mind; an awful one at that. But I have no choice, because the clock's ticking and there's only one way to do this. When he turns his head over his shoulder, I match my glare with his and shift on my feet to steady myself. "This." With one swift movement, I pull back my hand and send it flying into his nose. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to hurt like hell. My kuckles ache with the contact, but it works. He releases his hand from my wrist and brings it up to his fact, stepping back and letting out a pained yelp.

"Fuck!" This is my chance. God, I feel awful for stranding him, but he can take care of himself, and Carl needs to be found. As he shuts his eyes tight and stumbles on his feet a little, I turn around and take off flying, not turning as I hear him cursing and yelling in a furious voice, "Lyla!"

I can still hear his voice ringing in my ears as I round the corner. _"Lyla, no!"_

Well, I'll be damned. Son of a bitch almost sounds distressed.

As I continue to sprint as fast as I can, the thought occurs to me that I've probably just broken a trust that's taken a while to build through one little gesture.

* * *

><p>"Carl!" I hiss. "You around here?"<p>

For the last half an hour, only two things have developed. The air has become a little colder, and the silence seems much thicker.

No sign of the kid, and his hat now is on my head in some form of a tribute. I haven't heard any gunshots either, so I'm assuming that no mutts have been ganked. Part of me hopes that Daryl has found Carol, or anyone for that matter.

I wonder briefly where Rick is. Probably back at the house doing what he does best and comforting whoever's left. People like us, Daryl, Rick, and me, we all have our places. Rick is the leader, heartfelt and dangerous to threats against his group. Daryl is nothing but pure tactic, a hunter in his blood. Me? I'm still not sure, but I have a feeling it has something to do with being completely, safely alone and keeping people I trust to a minimum.

"Ugh, Carl?" I groan. "_Please_ answer me."

After a moment's deliberation, I give up on this area and turn to move along.

**Tap. Tap. Tap.**

I freeze. There's a huge part of me that believes that I had imagined what I'd just heard, but I stop and listen furthur just to be sure.

"Hello?"

**Tap. Tap. Tap.**

I spin around on my heel and search the area with my eyes. They look to the empty yard, the endless road, the windows of the house, the pick-up truck in the driveway...

Oh my god.

I begin to jog towards the car, almost not believing what I'm seeing.

But sure enough, pressed against the foggy glass is a small hand.

When I reach it, I barely stop and think to check it over before I reach down and yank open the door with such a force it could have ripped off altogether.

My eyes fall to the small, huddled figure in the back seat, hat-less and alone. He glances up at me with a tired look in his eyes. In a small voice, he mumbles, "Hey."

I can't stop myself. But I practically fall into the car and wrap my arms around his shoulders, squeezing tightly. I haven't hugged in so long, I almost wonder if I'm doing it properly. The thought settles though when he reaches up and returns the embrace.

"You crazy little idiot," I mutter, pulling away and sliding into the seat next to him, shutting the door. "Why didn't you go home earlier?"

His bright wide eyes search mine for a while, before he slowly ducks his head. "I didn't want to...Mom and Dad have been fighting."

Ah.

I can't exactly talk to him about this right now, it being not my business and all, so I decide to change the subject. "Carl...you could have been killed," I say, wincing at the sound of my own authoritive voice. "You're not hurt, are you?"

He shakes his head. "No. But I saw them. Two of them. The dogs."

"Yeah."

"Is everyone okay?"

I look down to him, wondering of all the possible ways that I could tell him that nobody is okay. "Uh, kinda. I mean," I reach up and scratch the back of my neck. "Your Mom and Shane are fine. That's pretty much for sure. Your Dad, Daryl and I went looking for everyone else."

Carl opens his mouth to speak, but drops his eyes down to my hands, which I only now notice are stained with the deep red of blood.

I watch him carefully. "...Dale's dead." As soon as the words leave my mouth, I hear how cold and tactless the words sound to a kid.

He doesn't look up towards me. There's a train of thoughts in his eyes, and he takes his time before he replies with a simple, "Oh."

"Sorry."

"...Was he hurting?"

The images flash again in my head. The blood. Daryl leaning over the paling body. The gunshot. "Daryl shot him. He went out as quick as we could make it."

Carl goes quiet again. I really hope that he doesn't start crying, because sad kids and me really don't mix well. How do you comfort on of these things during such a hard time?

He flicks his eyes up, and before I can open my mouth to say something remotely empathetic, he narrows his eyes and points towards my head. "That's my hat." His voice is calm, only sounding mildly annoyed at the sight of me wearing his beloved hat.

I reach up and remove it, before holding it in the air and observing it with a thoughtful hum. "Well, you lost it. Finder's keepers."

"Give it back," he says, a small grin beginning to form on his face. He lifts his arm up and snatches it from my hand, placing it down firmly on his head. He looks normal again, and it's a relief to know that he'll be returned exactly as he left.

I muster the warmest smile I can towards him, reaching out and patting his shoulder gently. "Wanna go home?"

"Yes," he sighs in return, sounding grateful.

My hand extends to pull on the handle so I can get out and go to the driver's seat.

A second after I hear the small click of the opening, a terrible screeching and a loud bang errupts in the air, and the car seems to shake. Beside me, Carl starts to panic, his breath picking up. My heart skips out on me when I manage to peak out enough just to see the large shadow of a growling, trembling mutt throwing itself rabidly against the side of the car.

As the car tips over again, so far that I think it might just flip over completely. Frantic barking and snarling booms out into the air as the metal scratches and whines against the animal. This one is huge, and has enough power to think it can knock this thing over to get to us. I turn around and meet Carl's frightened eyes. "Get in the front, go!" I yell, pushing him between the seats.

He clambers in the front, yelling out when the vehicle shifts from the ground again. When he's in, I slide through as quick as I can into the front seat.

I kick open the compartment under the wheel and hurriedly fiddle with the wires until I find the ones I need.

"What do we do?!" I hear Carl yell over all the chaos.

Sparking a light, I can feel my heart freeze until I hear the engine begin to purr. Lifting myself back up, I look put it in reverse and glare out the window towards the large hound. "Put your seatbelt on, Carl."

I can hear him frantically search to belt himself in place, but when I hear the click I need, the car is speeding out the drive in reverse so fast, everything seems to spin. The barking has now turned into snarling and bloodcurdling growls, and I slam my foot down on the gas and grip the wheel tight as we speed down the road.

"You okay?" I have to almost shout over the loudness of the engine.

"Yeah," Carl breaths, his small hands gripping the sides of the seats fiercely.

I then step down on the brake, bringing the car to a hasty stop. The tires screech against the tar.

"Might as well get it while we can."

We both grow silent, eyes on the rearview mirror, waiting to see what we want.

It's several seconds later that the flash of fur and pounding of paws becomes obvious, and as soon as we get that damn hound in our sights, I'm reversing again.

I'm not sure what speed we get to, but it can't be legal.

When both the dog and the car connect, there's a horrible thump and high pitched whimper that comes from the outside. We have it.

Carl, breathing heavier than normal, peaks out from his window. "...I think you killed it."

"You sure?"

He's quiet again, watching closely for any signs of movement. "...Yeah." He looks forward again, his back straight and his eyes shining with excitement. "That was...scary. Cool scary."

I can't help but raise an eyebrow towards him. "_Cool _scary? We just ran over a dog, shouldn't you be crying or something?"

"I think I'm more of a cat person."

"Jesus, Carl," I sigh into my palm. "You are just the weirdest thing."

* * *

><p>The car adds an advantage to us. ...And a slightly large disadvantage.<p>

It gets us around quickly, and I can drop Carl back at the house in ten. But the noise doesn't exactly give us much cover. The checklist reappears in my head once more.

_1 Dog._

_5 People to find._

I'm starting to get real sick of these dogs. At this point I'd gladly take on a couple of walkers.

Carl's voice comes out of nowhere in a loud, commanding yell. "Stop!"

I press down on the brakes quick, feeling my body being thrown forward with the force of the sudden halt.

I look up, and see two figures standing just to the side of the road.

"Lyla, Carl!" A voice yells.

When I manage to see clearer, my heart jumps inside my chest and a wave of resolution washes through me.

Glenn and T-Dog move towards the car quickly, and I unlock the doors from the inside.

"Get in!" Carl hurries, turning around in his seat to see the both of them.

"You guys alright?" T-Dog pants, sliding in and slamming the door behind him. Glenn moves in from the other side, his face smeared with dirt and something else I can't quite make out in the light.

"We're fine. Where's everyone else?"

As the car begins to move once more, T-Dog shakes his head in the backseat. "Don't know. We found each other about an hour ago. There are freaking dogs running around trying to kill us!" he cries, leaning forward in his seat. "Did you know?!"

"Why do you think we've been searching for you?!" I snap back, although I can hardly feel too mad as I've picked up enough people to return to the house with. "Shane and Lori are back at the house. Rick and Daryl might be still out there with Carol and Andrea."

"Ah, geez," Glenn sighs, removing his cap and shaking the dirt from it.

I catch eyes with him through the rearview mirror. "What's on your face?"

Glenn looks momentarily confused, before reaching up and wiping the side of his face to examine the marks on his fingertips. "Eugh," he groans at the sight, before wiping it on his shirt. "Mutt blood."

"You get caught?"

"On my way back. Found T-Dog by the RV and we wondered back to the house. Got a little lost in the dark."

"You kill it?"

There's a moment of hesitation in his reply. "...No. Tagged it in the leg though. Should slow it down, right?"

The car falls silent as we continue to drive. A fleeting moment of worry passes over me. Nothing of Daryl, Rick, Carol or Andrea. I can't bring myself to tell the both of them that Dale's gone. I'll leave Daryl to that if we find him again.

When we arrive back to the main house, the door has been nailed with wooden panels. The blinds are shut. I slowly roll to a stop and turn to the backseats.

"Get out," I say to them, nodding towards the house. "I'm gonna find the others."

Glenn shakes his head and opens the door, allowing T-Dog to slip out. Beside me, Carl is already half-way out the door.

"I'll come with you," Glenn says, then moving around the front of the car towards the passenger seat.

"You sure?"

When he moves in, he gives a nod, and places his rifle down inbetween us.

I look out the window to T-Dog, who has his arm around Carl's shoulders. "Take him to Lori," I instruct. He nods and they both begin to jog up to the front door.

Turning to Glenn, I see him watching out his window with a darkened expression. Perhaps it's the grief of knowing that so many of your friends are in danger, but he seems quieter than normal when he looks toward me and says, "Let's go."


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead.**

**Hope you all had a nice holiday, be what it may. Sorry for the long delay, but this chapter was a little slow to start. Hope you enjoy, and I look forward to reading any reviews!**

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><p>The tires hit the curb as I quickly pull over to a nearby house.<p>

"Come on," Glenn pants, almost jumping out of the car. I slip out and ready my gun. Beside me, I can hear his safety flick back with a threatening click.

More houses than we can count in his estate. Andrea could be anywhere. However, it's this particular house we stop at, for one dangerously specific reason.

Hanging poorly from one of the top windows, is a grimy, grey-coloured bedsheet. On it, a large, messy 'X' has been printed with what should be paint.

From a closer perspective, we realise that it's not paint.

It's blood.

The front door smashes against the wall and vibrates through the house.

"Andrea?!" Glenn calls, already running into the living room. Returning shortly after, his face is contorted with grief and panic at not being able to find her. He then turns and begins climbing the stairs with incredible speed, up and around the corner far before I am.

The halls seem like a maze upstairs, twisting and turning into different, yet empty rooms. Glenn seems to know where he's going, running to the end of the hall and forcefully kicking open a door.

When I step in, I see the decayed remains of a master bedroom. The sheets have been torn off the bed, and the bits of dust thicken the air by the ripped and limp curtains.

When I turn to the corner of the room, Andrea is sitting there, huddled into herself just beside the window. Her knees are brought up to her chest, and she's staring back at us with a wide look in her eyes.

"Are you bit?" Glenn frantically asks, dropping to the ground beside her.

"...N..No..." she breaths, feebly attempting to steady herself as we try and lift her from the dusty floor. "I was being chased, so...I ran in here. I thought that everyone might be dead..."

I don't know Andrea that well, but I've never seen such a terrified look in her eyes before. It doesn't suit her well. She's always seemed like someone who had pulled it together. It's obvious that Glenn notices it too, as his lips turn tight with anxiety as we begin to move towards the door.

"It's okay, everyone's back at the house," he tries to assure her. I can only bite my lip in agreement. Not everyone.

Andrea is slow, even with our help. We don't make much progress on leaving.

We're halfway towards the door when there's a noise that errupts from outside. Something between a crash and a clatter of metal, and all three of us freeze instantly.

"What was that?" Andrea asks, backing away slightly.

"Nothing." I try and sound properly convinced, but it falls flat. "Just the wind."

I try and begin to lead her, but the noise occurs again, this time louder. Just following it, there is the clear sound of scratching against wood.

It seems like forever until Glenn looks over to me with fear in his eyes. His voice comes out a small, feeble whisper.

"...Did you shut the front door?"

Something cold and hard shoves itself against the pit of my stomach. Nothing leaves my lips but a small stumble of words that can't straighten themselves out into a clear sentence. I drop Andrea's arm and quickly run from the room, praying to god that we're wrong.

When am I ever that lucky? As I look down over the railings of the stairs, covered by the darkness of the hallway, a large black shadow crawls around slowly, it's claws tapping against the waxy floors.

I reach down for my gun, but upon removing it, I hit the railing instead. I wince as the dark form below turns dangerously. As silence transforms into a warning growl, I turn and run back towards the room, just hearing a rabid bark and the clutter of paws against carpet as it makes it's way up the stairs.

When I reach the others once again, I slam the door behind me and hold my weight against it.

"Get out!" I yell in a panic.

Glenn helplessly looks at a weakened Andrea. "How are we supposed to-" As his voice fades, he turns his head towards the window, his lips twisting in hesitation.

Bad idea. At a bedroom window onto the driveway below, it'll only end in a broken limb at least. "It's too high-" The door screeches as the mutt on the other side makes itself known, throwing it's body against the wood. It'll never hold for longer than a minute.

Hearing the noise, Glenn hastily lowers Andrea against the ground and darts towards the decayed bed, ripping off the sheets to get to the mattress underneath. The door shakes again with the impact of an earthquake. I make the decision there and then to try and take it when Glenn and Andrea have left the room. Probably the worst decision I'm ever going to make again, but it's the only choice going.

The glass of the window smashes against Glenn's elbow, and he quickly maneuvers the mattress against it. For an awful moment, I don't think it's going to fit, but the window it just large enough to comply. The mattress hits the concrete ground below with a gentle thud, and as the hinges of the door begin to groan and give, Glenn is moving Andrea towards the window.

"I'll go first," he instructs. "Just do as I do."

I'm almost thrown forward with the impact of the next push against the door, but it's not as frightening as seeing Glenn slip himself to the other side of the frame, and disappear into the dark of the night with a loud yelp. Waiting for the sound of a crack of bones seems to last forever, but there's relief when we hear Glenn yelling back up, "Okay! Come on!"

Andrea looks behind to me with tired eyes, silently asking permission to leave.

"Go!"

"I can help-"

Frustration floods through me as the splintering sounds of wood creak in my ears. "Just get out of here! Now!" I yell at her, anger racing through my voice.

She quickly snaps into motion then, flinging herself over the edge of the window and after a moment's breath, slipping from over the side. Now I'm on my own.

I've got one shot to do this. Only enough time to get it right the first time.

There's only time to take in a sharp inhale of air before I throw myself away from the door. The sound of wood breaking and splitting into a hundred pieces hammers into the room, along with the ferocious sound of hungry growls. I keep my head down and don't allow myself to look up as I pull back the safety on my gun, roll onto my back, and fire three shots into the dark body that leaps towards me.

My stomach drops as the creature yelps, falls loudly against the floor, and skids against my feet.

I wait a moment. Everything has turned silent, and completely still. It's then that I can exhale quickly and manage to force myself from the ground.

Despite everything, a small laugh of relief escapes me. Well, that was a million-to-one shot. I quickly move towards the window, and without a second glance to the ground below, I push myself over the edge. The sky has darkened into black outside, and I can barely see below me. The sensation of falling is almost pleasant in a way.

The wind whips around my face, cutting my cheeks, until I hit something soft and grunt as the ground stops under me.

"You get it?" I hear Glenn ask. Rolling off the mattress and onto my feet, I move over and see him gently helping Andrea up.

"Yeah." I notice Andrea's pained face as she attempts to walk. "You okay?"

She grimaces, and looks down at her foot. "It hurts a little. I think I landed awkwardly."

"Don't worry, we'll get you back to the house." There's a small feeling of satisfaction that bubbles up inside me, quickly replaced by relief. That was the last one. The last dog. It's over now. Just for the pleasure of doing so, I decide to add, "...Take your time."

* * *

><p>Returning back to where we started seems bittersweet. None of the lights seem to be on; nothing to indicate that anyone else is actually in there anymore.<p>

When we run into the house, the light is competely non-existant. Glenn slams the door behind us, with which the noise seems to echo through the walls.

"Hello?!" Glenn yells, storming ahead. "It's us!"

After what seems like forever, the sound of feet appear, and soon a figure emerges. They run down the steps, and when they get into my sights, I see that it's Rick. His shirt is stained with mud and dirt, and his gun is raised shakily in front of him. When he sees that it's us, he instantly tucks it away.

"What happened?!" he demands, making his way towards us and lifting Andrea's other arm from Glenn, and placing it around his shoulder. She winces at the motion.

"We had to jump," she breaths. "It's my fault, I landed badly."

I look over her shoulder towards the officer and try and capture his focus. "Rick, we got them all. There's no more."

He looks over and seems to let it absorb. His shoulders fall a little, appearing to lighten with the thought of their safety being returned. "You're sure?"

"Every one."

Glenn looks around at the darkness of the house and seems to panic slightly. "Where is everyone?"

"Upstairs. We need to get her up."

I reach out and place my hand in the air before him, bringing him to a pause. "Rick, wait." I focus on his eyes for a moment, and he stares back, seeming to understand the need for privacy.

"Glenn-" He gingerly hands Andrea's arm over to him. "-Get her to the bedroom. Lori will fix her up."

"Sure."

Rick and I are both silent, watching as Glenn and Andrea limp slowly up the stairs and around the corner. When I'm sure they're gone, I turn towards Rick, my mouth beginning to form the words of apology.

I'm completely caught off guard when Rick places his hand on my shoulder and ducks his head to match his eye level to mine.

"Lyla, thank you."

That was the last thing I was expecting. "...I'm sorry?"

"You brought Carl back. T-Dog, Glenn, and Andrea too."

Confusion floods through me. I was expecting exclusion, perhaps even anger. Not gratitude. "But...it's kinda my fault that Carl didn't get home in the first place."

"How do you figure?"

"Well...he was with me. I should have taken him back."

Rick's lips upturn in a small, rather sad attempt of a smile. "You're not his babysitter. Nobody is." He shrugs through a large exhale of breath. "Even Lori and I find it hard to keep tabs on him all the time. It's tough."

"Still. It was my idea to come here in the first place."

His head tilts slightly, and he looks at me with mild confusion. As if he doesn't understand why I want the blame that rightly belongs to me. "You brought us safety. Food, beds...a roof. That's more than we've had in a while."

As the words leave his mouth, I feel a slight dejection in the pit of my stomach. "You're too forgiving," I say, feeling my face contort into a grimace. "That's gonna come back to bite you in the ass, Grimes."

"You risked your life to save my people...That makes you one of them."

Oh.

Oh _shit_.

No, no, no. The impact of the words that have just been shared between us hits me like a bucket of cold ice over the head.

I can feel my skin crawling, and my shoulders fall in a complete givaway of my denial.

I cannot possibly let him think this. That I belong with them. I don't. I don't belong with anyone.

The past few days have been completely surreal. I wanted to make sure they were okay. I wanted to get them someplace safe so I could at least leave with a clear conscience. I guess the plans of leaving quietly had just fallen behind with all that has been going on. Never did I want them to think that I was here on a permanent basis. I didn't want to get attached, but these people are the only smart ones I've met in a while.

I wanted to make them trust me. So at least they would allow me to help them. I was never trying to reserve a place. Travelling with them for a little while was good enough for me.

I've never stayed with a group for that long. It's a survival tactic - I prefer my own protection.

With the way Rick is now looking at me, I can only guess that I'm looking slightly upset at the comment.

I can't even bring myself you express my gratitude for him leaving me alone when he says, "I'm gonna check on Andrea." He sends me one last glance before passing me by.

There is nothing right now that makes sense. From the beginning, I knew that I was going to get myself out of this, without the company of others. I never planned to make myself a part of this group, but they were welcoming. Smart. They love each other like family. I don't get it, or understand it.

It's a strange feeling. The one name that sticks out amongst them all is Daryl. Someone who I _can_ understand and relate to. He is different from when we first met, and I don't know why. I had planned to figure it out, but it's harder than I thought. He doesn't bullshit. He's reliable and instinctive and is in complete heartbreak. Something I know far better than I want to. For some reason, he is completely comforting to be around.

Speak of the devil, and he wil appear.

After thinking that some fresh air would help me clear my head, I begin to move towards the door.

The sound of feet storming down the stairs nearly cracks the walls. I spin around and see Daryl walking from the steps and towards me, anger burning in his features.

_Oh shit, I punched him in the face._

Here it comes.

He flies past me, placing himself between the door and I. "You." He slams his hand down on the wood, forcing the door shut with a thud that no doubt can be heard from upstairs.

Letting out a sigh, I turn to face him. "Do your worst." He does nothing, and I look up in question. My eyes fall past his infuriated eyes and down towards his cheek, where a large scratch mark stretches from the bottom of his jaw, ending near the tip of his ear. Dried blood has trailed from the wound, painting the side of his face a dark scarlett. "Your face-"

"The fuck?!" He steps forward, and I have to move back just to keep a safe distance between us. His bright eyes are on fire, and glaring into mine with painful intensity. "You say you've got my back, but ya' run off an' leave me?!" His face quickly contorts into rage. He shakes his head furiously. "I found Carol locked up in a basement, outta her mind 'bout what was goin' on! I had'ta drag her back to the house, an' when I got here, Shane and Lori said you never came back!" A split second passes, and without warning, he lifts his arm and flings the - "I thought you were dead!"

Something flickers in a passing moment at the back of his eyes. My first instinct is to apologise. The second throught that occurs is that I know I can damn well handle myself. Always have. More importantly, he knows it too. "Hey, in my defence, I found four other people, and took down two mutts!"

A cruel smile passes along his lips with a forced laugh of disbelief. "Look, you can take care of yerself, I know it. As long as it leaves my ass hangin' out for the rest of the danger to find, huh?"

"You were watching yourself everyday up until I came round!"

"That ain't the point!"

"Well then what is?!"

He grows quiet once more, his mouth opening and closing several times with unspoken words. When he finally speaks, it comes out in a darkened voice. "If I can't trust ya...then how are they supposed to?"

Blood begins pumping through my veins at a furious pace. "You think I would hurt them!? After everything I've done for them?!" When he doesn't reply, I have to knot my hands together just to keep from hitting him again. "You know what? I don't need this. I can do just fine on my own. If you're still that against me being here, then it's not worth my trouble." Sending him one final glare, I yank the door open, almost knocking him out in the process. So much for the comforting fucking _friend _figure I thought he was.

I'm halfway through the door when he reaches out and pulls me back by my shoulder. "Where'd ya' think you're goin'?!" he demands.

"The hell away from you!"

"Hey-" My head spins around over my shoulder to await his threat with a challenging stare. "You walk out that door an' I'm gonna-"

"You're gonna what?"

He doesn't respond. Simply glaring back at me, his jaw has tightened and his breaths are shallow and heavy with anger. With the light streaming in gently from the window, the blood on his face is shining against his skin. A change of subject is in order to regain both our collective sanity.

"...That from a dog?"

"Do I look infected to you?" he hisses.

I can't withhold rolling my eyes at his quick defence. "Alright Steve McQueen, just asking." Squeezing past him, I walk towards the kitchen. "Come on."

It's a moment later that I hear him following, and when we get inside, I walk up to the sink and point towards the nearest chair. He says nothing, but obeys and takes a seat. After finding an old wash cloth, I find a bottle of water and pour it over. When I reach him again, he's slumped in his seat slightly, having calmed down.

I take a seat opposite him, and ignore the look of confusion and mild irritation in his features. As I reach up to place the rag against his cheek, he flinches back and holds his hand up. "What are y-"

"Just let someone else do something for you, okay?"

I wait until his hand is lowered, and his head moves forward a little. Slowly, I move my hand and place the cloth lightly against his cheek. Already, his shoulders tense up and his jaw tightens so much I can almost see the muscles jumping. His eyes lightly crease together as he inhales sharply whilst I gradually wipe the blood from his skin. Moving across to the edge of my seat, I lean forward to closer look at the mark. Almost instinctively, Daryl leans back against my movements, eyeing my suspitiously as I study the torn skin with narrowed eyes.

"Doesn't need stitches," I mumble. Against my cheeks, I can feel warm breaths that are escaping his lips into the small space between us. When I look back up, his eyes catch mine. I can't help but notice that they've darkened. Maybe it's to do with the strange adrenaline of the day, but part of me things it might be something else.

For the purpose of breaking the silence, I cast my eyes downwards and begin wiping my blood stained hands. "So what happened?"

After I've spoken, he breaks his eyes from mine and lowers his head slightly. "Got back, Rick came a little after. Carl and T followed." There's a thoughtful pause in his voice, before he continues in an insipid tone. "I was gonna come get ya. Help you look for the kid."

I lift my head up then, an eyebrow raised. "Even after I slugged you in the face?"

He attempts to shrug, seemingly straightening his back at an attempt to regain his pride. "Ah, didn't hurt that bad."

"Your reaction said different."

"Shut up."

A smile presents itself on my face, but doesn't quite reach my cheeks. "Did you tell the others about Dale?"

"...Not yet."

"You want some help?"

He seems unsure at first, only shrugging a shoulder lightly. However, something seems to make itself clear to him, as he begins to nod slowly and mumble out, "...Sure."

No part of me wants to see the faces of the others as they are told that a loved member is now dead. Unfortunately, there's also a small part of me that doesn't want to make Daryl do that on his own. I rise from my seat and fling the now reddened cloth to the counter, nodding towards the door as I do so. "Let's go."

He takes a moment, but he's soon enough up and moving towards the staircase, just a few feet before me. We're near the top when he turns his head towards his shoulder just a little. It's almost quiet enough that I don't catch it, but a mumbled "Thanks" can just be heard.

Things are about to get just a little bit worse around here.


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead. **

**Ahsfksfajfsh, so many really appreciated reviews. Always enjoy to hear what you think! Have a good weekend.**

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><p>Andrea cries.<p>

Actually, she sobs. Breaks down completely. If I knew her better, it'd probably be absolutely heartbreaking.

I don't exactly remember how the conversation went, as I was trying to focus on something else the entire time in order to avoid seeing their faces. All I truly know is that it was short.

Rick asked where the body was, and Daryl went off to show him, Shane, and T-Dog. I was left with the others, but they barely even looked at me. Carl was just about the strongest one there, having already known of Dale's demise. Carol turned almost scarily quiet, whilst Glenn excused himself from the room for the duration of the evening.

The only time I was directly addressed was when Lori patted me softly on the shoulder and told me to get some sleep. I settled myself downstairs, away from the rest of them, and curled up against the dusty couch.

Daryl said that they would want to bury him. Did that mean there would be a funeral? I deeply hoped that there wouldn't. Funerals make me uncomfortable. I'd been to a few before everything turned. Work collegues and such, wanting a hand to hold or a shoulder to cry on. Not really exactly where I wanted to be, but how could you deny someone in mourning?

Really, it's just the atmosphere. Everyone is silent, listing to stories and jokes about someone that apparently everyone loved. People dress in their best, and distant friends that hadn't talked in years all are reunited, only pretending to feel sorrow, but really just making an apperance because they have to. The after-funeral gatherings are the worst. People pat shoulders and shake hands with shaking heads, but nobody really means it. To me, funerals are just complicating something actually incredibly simple. They just remind everyone of the inevitable. Everyone's going to die, and your 'friends' are just in it for the free food.

The cynicism eventually wears me out, and I manage to sink into a sleep with only the worst predictions for the day ahead.

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><p>Just as I suspected. There is most definitely a funeral.<p>

I almost consider not making an apperance, as my relationship with Dale has lasted no longer than a few days.

There's also a small pang of guilt in my stomach at every mention of his death that won't go away.

Before I can disappear and hide away in a house somewhere, Carl is there. He's looking at me with those goddamn eyes and asking if he can stand with me and I can't say no for the life of me.

So I'm with the rest of them, standing over a small pile of rocks in the middle of a backyard covered with dead petunias, listening to words being said about a man that ended up dying in the middle of the night.

Rick says nice things. Although I don't really hear it fully as my mind is focused on the reactions of everyone else.

Andrea is quietly crying up front, whilst Rick stands front and centre to lead the whole thing. Shane is at the back of the group oddly, keeping to himself. Everyone else has these strange, mourning looks on their faces. It's very unsettling.

When everything is over, I decide to slip away quietly. It seems that everyone could use the space, and I'm not really in the mood to socialise.

For the next hour or so, I walk around the estate with thoughts filled with nothing of hungry growls and the sounds of flesh being torn. It tires me out quickly, and soon my legs hurt and my breaths seem a little heavier.

I end up finding Daryl's pick-up truck parked half-hazardly in the middle of an abandoned driveway. It's on when I get closer and see his feet sticking out of the tailgate that I even notice he's there. When I reach it and lean over the side, he's lying flat with his crossbow placed beside him. His eyes are shut, and his arms are gently stretched and crossed behind his head, where a folded leather vest is being used as a pillow.

He looks peaceful, and strangely, a lot younger. It's a moment before I say anything, to watch him a little longer if nothing else.

But of course, his inner hunter senses that I'm there soon enough, and he opens one eye towards me.

Somehow, the relaxed atmosphere that he's radiating effects me, and I end up slouching against the truck, leaning my chin against my hand as I watch him. "Feeling tired, Sleeveless?"

He snorts to himself, and shuts his eyes again. "Don't you got someone else to piss off?"

"Nah, just you," I reply casually, making my way around to the tailgate, where I swiftly jump up and draw my legs up from the ground. I cross my arms over each other, stretching my legs out in front of me. Daryl opens both eyes and stares back for a moment, taking me in for the first real time this morning. I find it's too calm to do anything but watch him in return.

After a while, he leans over and digs his hand into a bag by his shoulder, pulling out a half-full water bottle.

"Here." He gently thumps it against my shoulder.

Reaching behind me and grabbing it from him, I place it in my hands and stare into the clear water. I can't bring myself to drink at the moment. "Thanks."

"You hungry?"

All the time. "Not yet."

He settles himself back into laying down, and leans with his torso up against the back window. "We gonna finish talkin'?" he asks, resting his hands on his stomach.

Sensing that he's not going to leave me alone about it, I let out a quiet sigh and turn my head towards him. "About?"

"Your scars."

In hindsight, it was really my fault for forgetting about this whole thing. My heart sinks a little as soon as the words leave his lips, reminding me about what had happened. I had hoped that he wouldn't bring back up the fight that nobody won. That it could be left behind with a whole other mess of crap that wasn't worth discussing.

"Who was it?" he says, throwing me off even more. Not exactly the first thing I expect to come out of his mouth.

"How do you-"

"I know. Trust me." Something flashes behind his eyes. Something that prompts him to tear his stare from me and to cast his eyes down to the ground. Instinctively, I almost feel sorry for him. The solomn expression on his features is akin to that of a child. It doesn't match him at all - it looks all wrong.

"Would it really make you feel better if you knew?"

"You kinda owe me for the punch in the face."

I can't hold back the breath of laughter that escapes me. "Oh, do I?" When he lifts his head again, the previous expression has disappeared, been forced back, swallowed down. He's listening again, waiting for me to give in. "I'd really rather not talk about it," I say, already feeling a disgusting taste arise at the back of my throat.

These are things I never wanted to discuss with anyone. Never would I expect to be in this position with Daryl of all people. He doesn't accept my denial, but he doesn't press either. He just sits in silence and waits for me to speak. After a while, I reach up and rub my palm across my cheek in complete dejection. "You're not gonna drop this are you?"

"No." The answer is blunt and simple, but nothing I shouldn't have expected from him.

Suddenly, the air feels too hot, almost making my breaths heavier. I feel claustraphobic, and extremely uncomfortable.

I don't want to discuss it. Honestly, if it were anyone else, I wouldn't say. I never do anything if I don't want to. However, looking at it objectively, I have no choice. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner he'll drop it. Maybe he'll return the favour and answer a few of my questions. I suppose of all people, Daryl is probably the best person to talk with.

Besides. For some completely stupid and unknown reason, I feel like I can trust him.

He won't judge me, or constantly remind me of this.

When I look at him, I decide to just settle and tell him. His face is gentle, and patient.

It's almost a shock to hear my own voice break the silence."...Y-you have to understand that I grew up without a real family." I can feel my fingernails dig into the plastic of the bottle. "If I did, I wouldn't be the way I am."

The sound of doors shutting can be heard from inside, and I can assume that not everyone wants to leave the house today. Nobody, in fact.

I try and remain focused, but it's so long since I've even really thought about it, let alone spoke it aloud. It's almost hard to remember. Like a fuzzy, slightly convoluted memory that everyone says happened, but you really don't remember vividly. "My parents died when I was three. Car accident. My Uncle and his wife took me in. He was…alright enough. Kinda strict. Worked in the mill, so he was gone all hours of the day. So I had to spend all day with his bitch of a wife." A cool shiver works it's way down my spine at the sudden sight of the women I had spent so many years detesting. "God, she hated me. Wasn't shy about telling me, neither." Bright green eyes and harsh words burn their way back into my brain, and I have to bite my lip for a few seconds to keep from yelling out in anger; something I did plenty of during my teens. "Did you know how hard that was? Hearing as a kid that nobody loves you? That you're worthless and a waste of space?"

I'm looking at Daryl now, and waiting for him to shake his head or something. But he's just frozen in his own accord, something else ticking at the back of his mind. Then I feel like an idiot for asking such a question. "What am I saying? Of course you don't." He forces his eyes to the side then, choosing to respond with silence. "Anyway, I uh, I got old enough to talk back, and she hated that. Things started getting violent." The scars begin to itch now. Blood feels as if it's rushing to the surface of every scratch and bruise, reminding my of it's presence. "Especially when she'd had a drink or two. As soon as I hit 18, I left. Never looked back, never saw them again." The feelings of hatred and loneliness are beginning to rush back now like a wave that can't be stopped, and I soon feel a burning sensation at the back of my throat. I chose to wrap things up quickly, hastily screwing the top off the bottle. "I found someplace relatively cheap to rent in Atlanta and settled there on my own." Drawing into a silence, I gulp down a few swallows of water, only stopping when I run out of breath. "That's pretty much it," I breath, wiping the moisture from the corner of my lip.

He turns his head to the sky and falls quiet. His brow knits together slightly as he thinks, his eyes boring into the violet blue sky above us. I have no clue what must be going through his head, but it makes him silent enough for what seems like several minutes. When he finally speaks again, his voice is somber, and even a little accusing. "…You said that yer parents were still alive. When you were telling me about that dog you found."

"I lied."

"You go back after everythin' started fallin' apart?"

"I planned to. But it was a long trip. Just didn't seem worth it to see two people I never really cared for turned into living corpses."

After he doesn't respond, I wonder whether telling him was really the best thing to do. However, it was out now, and I couldn't take it back. So whatever judgement on me he now has, it's not worth fussing over. "Was that what you wanted to hear?" I can't help but sound bitter about it.

Of course, I have every reason to be. Nobody ever would have believed me. No, of course not. Nobody ever believes the kid. She was just the selfless woman who took in a child that wasn't hers. Abiding to obligation and 'the good of her heart' as other people described it. I learnt more before I reached the age of thirteen than most people do at the age of thirty.

Violent people are the most well hidden.

It takes him a moment to respond, but he at last speaks just before I think that leaving would be the best thing to do next. "What do ya mean?"

"...About what?"

"How you wouldn't be the way you are if you had a normal family life. What do ya mean?"

How he could not understand, I don't know. It's pretty clear who I am; what I am. Staring back at him, I feel my face contort in confusion. "I wouldn't be so untrusting and selfish...So inclined to run away from everything for the sake of being alone."

He watches me, his eyes observing my face with a look of annoyance, as if I'm missing out on something. "…You sure are annoyin'."

That jolts me. Not exactly what I expect to hear. Or want to hear. "Wow. Kick me when I'm down."

A corner of his lips twitches into a slight smile, and he decides to sit up, his toned arms lifting his torso up so his eyes are now level with mine. "No, I mean…yer annoyin'. And kinda a bitch. And stubborn."

"You'd better have a point."

His head shakes a little to himself. "You're a lot of things, girl. But you ain't selfish." His shoulders lift in a small shrug. "You should be good with how you are." There's a temporary pause in his voice before he finishes. "Or at least, how others see ya."

"...How do they see me?"

"Smart. Strong…Trustworthy." It's then that he jumps down from the edge of the tailgate, and speaks as he walks around to the other side. "Everyone else seems to like ya."

I don't know why, but suddenly the instinct is very strong to find out about what _he _thinks. It's not the desire to adapt myself to his opinion that matters, but the need to know at least is quickly taking over. "What about you?"

He pauses, and leans against the truck's frame, his arms crossed over the side. "Well…" Acting thoughtful, his eyes travel up and down, stopping when they reach my face. "...Yer' ass ain't at all bad."

Barely a heartbeat later, a loud and ungraceful snort escapes. Which turns into a real laugh. Several. The pure bluntness and surriel answer sounds more hilarious than it probably really is. When I've recovered, I fling my hand against my heart in an over-theatrical motion. "My ass? Not bad? Oh boy, Dixon. You just made my day!" The laughter starts again, and I can't stop, even when I slip out of the truck and onto my feet.

Quickly, all the nerves and distasteful memories that were occupying my mind have disappeared. The scars are numb now, and the only thing I can hear is my laugh which has been gone for what suddenly seems like too long a time.

Daryl elevates a questioning eyebrow and twists his lips, appearing completely weirded out by my sudden change in behaviour. He ducks his head suddenly, muttering an annoyed, "Alright, I take it back." It makes him look shy, maybe even a little embarressed, which barely helps with my amusement.

I swallow the remaining laughter down and lean back against the cool metal shell of the truck. When the silence kicks in once more, a faint sense of guilt wavers through me without warning. Back at the house, everyone else is feeling the post-funeral daze, probably still heartbroken and grieving. "Is it wrong that we're having a good time while they're all mourning?"

Daryl senses my sudden change in mood, and promptly responds with a small shake of the head. "Nah," he mumbles, straightening himself. "It's alright to have a good time once in a while."


	25. Chapter 25

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Walking Dead.**

**Sorry for the long delay, guys. A lot of work and some crazy stuff going on at my end of the world. Hopefully this will make up for it. Let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy.**

**AND by the way, I don't get to watch TWD over here until Fridays. So if you would all be extremely kind as to not accidently drop any spoilers into reviews, that would be swell. (Not that you would- you all seem lovely and respectful and awesome, but you know how some people can be.) But I shall no doubt rant about what happened when I release the next chapter. Peace out.**

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><p>Daryl and I decide to find the others.<p>

Honestly, I wouldn't find it completely horrible to avoid the others today. Something in the air desperately begs for silence, for a respectful quiet to follow Dale's funeral. However, not everything in nature agrees.

Still, we walk together in silence. Once or twice he glances towards me, and quickly ducks his head to the ground. Part of me wants to press what's running through his head, but then the logical thing to do would be to not venture into _that _realm.

The peace does have it's place. There's a sort of calm that suggests the slightest hint of hope that maybe all the bad luck has passed. It's incredibly unlikely, and I wouldn't bet anything on it, but still. It's something.

Maybe we've won the place we all needed at one time or another. A safety? A sanctuary?

A home?

An excessive growl in my stomach burns through me, and on instinct, my hands fly up to my belly as my lips twist into a deep frown.

"I could go for a cheeseburger," I say wistfully, remembering a particular dish that they served at a cafe near my place in the city. Oh boy, what I wouldn't give for an extra serving of fries right now.

Daryl looks at me with an arched brow. "What, my squirrel 'ain't good enough?" he asks, mock offence animating his voice in a strange, unfamiliar way.

"Geez, forgive me, oh mighty Chef Dixon," I retort, sarcasm roughly lacing my voice as I lift my hands in defence.

A laugh escapes me when I feel his hand against my arm, lightly shoving me from my spot. "Shut it." There's a mask of harshness in his voice, but it's lost under a small smirk that he can't hide.

"Harassment!" I accuse through a quiet chuckle that can't be repressed.

When he turns his head to look at me once more, his lips part, as if to speak. But he is cut off by the sound of yells in the distance. Nothing that sounds threatening, or dangerous, but completely unexpected.

Our heads turn simultaneously towards the sound, waiting to hear more that would provoke action. As we listen, it becomes clear who the voices belong to.

"Come on," Daryl says, his voice quiet with consideration. Perhaps this is nothing we need to involve ourselves in, but best to check up anyway. He gives a small nod of the head, and I follow him as he tracks the source.

We find them quickly, caught up in the heat of an argument that we have clearly missed the no doubt exciting beginning of.

Shane and Rick are standing opposite each other, Rick calm and collected as best as he can be, whilst Shane paces before him, his eyes shining with wild defence.

The others are there, and whilst Daryl quietly and slyly moves forward in case violence breaks out, I hang back just beside Glenn and T-Dog, who are watching with exasperated faces, as if this were expected.

"What's going on?" I murmur to T-Dog, who has his arms crossed and eyes that are watching carefully, almost like he were observing a couple of animals in the zoo.

He replies with a shrug. "They just started going at it," he explains. Upon seeing my questioning eyes he explains furthur. "Long time coming. Best to just let them work it out."

Long time coming? I've only ever noticed a slight tense mood around them sometimes, but nothing that I ever thought would amount to a full-on fallout. Interest peaked, I stand back and watch them, keen to see where this came from...and possibly where it goes.

Mid-debate, Shane's shoulders are raised with a tension that makes him appear to have an animalistic quality, and his teeth are bared in anger as he spits towards Rick, "You've been wanting to press the trigger at my head, I can see it in your eyes!"

Rick doesn't hold back the heavy sigh that is released from his lips. "Don't you understand how insane this sounds? Just try and cool off!" His voice is harsh, and strange coming from the normally gentle leader, but his instinct of defence overtakes him.

"Tryin' to brush me off, huh? Get me to leave?! I see what you're doin'!" Shane continues. He begins to look crazy, caught up in the fiery heat of the fight like a drug. Just past him, I see Lori and Carl standing a few feet away. No part of this seems right for them to see, particularly Carl. His face is contorted into fear as he watches the two men battle. "I've stood by you every second, Rick!"

"I know you have-"

"What have I done?! I mean, I know things aren't the way they used to be, but that's no-"

"You know what you did!" Rick snaps, his voice raised and close to slicing the silence in half like a knife. The sound is frightening, and completely jarring to the ears. Carl flinches in the corner of my eye, and beside me, Glenn and T-Dog shift on their feet uncomfortably. Rick's arm moves to gesture towards us. "Pretty sure everyone else does too!"

At this point, Lori steps forward, gently directing Carl behind her. Her face is set, just a hint of threat under her features. "Okay, just stop-"

Rick ignores her, and continues his rampage towards Shane. "That's why I can't look at you the same! If you're feeling hostility, maybe that's why!"

"You just can't put that behind you! I said I was sorry, I didn't mean-"

Shaking his head to himself, Rick just scoffs under his breath. Once he raises his eyes towards his friend once more, they're narrowed in motion as if he were in pain. He watches Shane with a pitiful stare. "Shane, just stop! Stop trying to redeem yourself!"

Shane's face changes then. Something switches from anger to knowledge; something that causes him to lose the fire in his features and relax into something more akin to smugness. "...Maybe that's not it. Maybe it's somethin' else."

At his words, Rick's body freezes. The air around them suddenly changes. It becomes much less about anger and disagreement, and turns into something much more dangerous. For a moment, nobody says a word, just waiting to hear what's to come out into the open.

Lori seems to know something that we don't, and quickly leaves Carl to step towards them. She places a firm hand on Shane's shoulder to prevent him from going any futhur, and she begins to pull him back. Under her breath she firmly hisses towards him, "That's enough."

Shane tugs his arm from her grip harshly, and moves closer to Rick. His shoulders stoop towards the man in a way that makes me want to cringe. It seems too patronising, too condescending to a figure like Rick. Almost disrespectful in a way. "No, no, look at him. He's not feeling angry about me," he muses in a deep voice, his lips upturning in a knowing smirk. "He's angry about himself. He knows he can't take care of you anymore."

When Rick speaks, his voice seems cutting and bitter with all the venom in his veins dripping .

There should be a silence that follows. Everyone should fall quiet from shock and unexpectancy, thefrom the word. "Enough."

"That's it, isn't it? You're feeling pissed because you know that you really can't protect 'em!"

"I said enough!"

"Not Carl, not Lori...for sure not the baby-"

Wait. What?

_The baby?_

Beside me, Glenn drops his head. T-Dog releases his arms and lets them hang limply to the ground words ringing in the air between the group.

But there is no silence. The only sound that follows is a vicious cry of rage that rips from Rick's throat as he lunges towards Shane, soon taking him to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Dust kicks up from the ground, and is accompanied by a string of curses and grunts as the two begin brawling right in front of us.

There is no time to consider the words that have just been spoken, as the violence ensues at such a pace. Daryl leaps in the moment it begins, and T-Dog quickly joins, both ready to rip the two apart before one of them ends up close to dead.

"Oh shit..." Glenn mumbles beside me, turning his back against the fight.

In the meantime, I can't turn myself away. It's all too fascinating and horrific at the same time.

Someone is bleeding. The bright blush of red on knuckles and staining the ground seems too vivid to miss. It's hard to tell who though, as they move at such a rate that I can barely tell who from who.

"Stop!" Lori cries from behind them. I almost want to roll my eyes at her. That is not how you stop a fight, Lori. Please do something useful.

But then I remember what I have just heard.

Andrea's voice comes in next, demanding them to stop. A some point, Carl has disappeared, most likely taken by Carol who is gone also.

The battle seems to last for hours, but it's really just minutes later that the two have been seperated like children. Rick is being helped up by T-Dog, and has conflict written in worry all over his face, along with a dribble of blood leaking from a spilt lower lip. It's obvious that he wants to jump back in and half kill his old partner, but he is trying desperately to remember who he is.

Shane on the other hand, is not going down so easy. Daryl has him by the neck, still on the ground. He's kicking wildly, threats pouring from his lips like prayers towards Daryl.

Rick watches for a moment, but as soon as Lori reaches him to lay a hand on his shoulder, he steps back from her. His lips are spread into a tight line of distress, and he ignores the sounds of his name as he turns and leaves promptly. Despite his behaviour, Lori takes one disgusted glare towards Shane and follows him.

I turn behind me and see Glenn make his way towards us, his hat in his hand, appearing completely defeated.

Andrea sees him also, and nods her head in the other direction. "Glenn, go back to the house and check on Carl. He's probably freaking out."

Glenn pauses in his steps, but nods in understanding. I hear his feet against the hard ground as he leaves, and I cast my eye down to Shane, who has given up the struggle with Daryl.

"You shouldn't have gone that far," Andrea mutters down to him. "Pushing Rick like that."

"Let me go, Dixon!" he spits towards Daryl, who was still restraining him to the best of his ability.

"Pfft, sure," Daryl retorted, sarcasm heavy in his voice, only tightening his grip. "So you can beat the shit outta' the rest of us?"

"He came at me!"

"You deserved it." I don't even realise that the thought has left my lips aloud until the others turn their heads towards me. From the ground, Shane sents a glare up my way. Opps.

"Wanna explain that, Miss Smartass?" he growled. A small grunt escapes him when Daryl twists his hands and cramps his neck a little furthur.

"Be nice," I think I hear him hiss down at the officer.

"She's right, Shane. That was none of your business to announce," Andrea states, folding her arms towards him. "Nobody's interested in your defence until you cool off." She looks towards me. "Let's leave them to it."

I didn't bother to disagree with her. Sure, there was some strange anxiety at the thought of leaving Daryl with a vengeful Shane, but I put it down purely for the fact that I've spent a good portion of the day with him.

She turns and leaves, but I take one more moment to check in with Daryl. See if he wants me to stay. Our partnership is a two way deal. He glances at me with an affermative look in those sharp blue eyes and sends me a nod of assurance.

It's only then that I can clearly turn my back on them and return to the thoughts that have begun to race in my head.

* * *

><p>The sky grows thick with clouds as the day passes. The silence that was once respectful and welcomed was now stinging and bland, awkward with the new revelations.<p>

It's exactly thirty two minutes and three seconds later that the thought becomes very clear to me.

Lori is pregnant.

As in _pregnant._

Initially, my first thought is that in the middle of a zombie apocalypse isn't exactly the most romantic place to consummate. But hey, I suppose it's all necessary, right?

The magnitude of the reality hits me so hard that it almost knocks me off my feet and back onto the ground on my ass. (An ass that just hours ago, Daryl told me wasn't bad.)

How long must have she known this? Unbelievable. I mean quite frankly, the thought have having one child during all this is bad enough. But having to carry one around in your stomach and then bring it up afterwards? The medical side of things doesn't look too bright either. Nobody around here is really qualified enough to assist in birthing anyway. Carol perhaps, and maybe even Rick, but who's to say that either of those two will make it nine months?

Besides, there is an indescribable amount of things that could go wrong anyway. Miscarriage, twins, complications that could kill Lori...

There's barely enough food around here to feed the ones that are already around, let alone one more.

This baby only means more work for Daryl, for me, for everyone. This is nothing but a negative factor in a huge world of shit.

Without warning, anger begins to boil inside me uncontrollably.

How could they be so stupid? Getting pregnant in the middle of the end of the world is just about the dumbest thing I've ever heard. It'll kill them, and maybe everyone else along with it. Just another reason for me to leave right this second before I get trapped in with the rest of them. The kid is a fucking danger.

If anything does happen to her or the baby, which it most likely will, the emotional impact on the rest of the group will be staggering. Carl will just about want to run away, Shane will have a freaking field day, and there will probably be a suicide or something in the shape of an ex-police officer with a broken heart.

I have half a mind to find Lori and tell her myself about her god-damn stupidity.

However, there is a thought that poses itself in the back of my mind that keeps my feet planted firmly on the ground.

What if she choses not to keep it? She might have only been pregnant for a while now. It's likely that she's fully aware of all the trouble this will bring. Maybe she'll find a way to...get rid of the thing.

_Get rid of the thing._

Jesus Christ. No sooner than a second after the words pass through my mind, I want to put a bullet in my own brain.

Since when am I like this? I have plenty of negative qualities, there's no denying, but this is a fucking _baby_. An unborn one, at that. Here I am talking like it's a virus, or some parasite that needs to be rid of.

Shame and humiliation hit me like a wave as a result of my own selfishness. This is not my problem, and quite frankly not exactly my business. Lori will do what she thinks best (be it stupid or not) and there's nothing I can do about it.

Still, the lack of control for me is overwhelming, and I can't stop from letting my head fall into my hands and letting out a large groan. "Shit," I mutter into my palms.

"Lyla?" a voice calls from around the corner. I lift my head, and pray that it's someone worth talking to.

Soon, a blonde head walks into sight, and a pair of curious light blue eyes meet mine.

Andrea. Close enough.

"Hey." I wonder if she's spoken to Lori, or even Rick since the fight. Normally, I wouldn't be one for gossip, but this surpasses 'normal' by far. "What's happening with Lori?"

Andrea shrugs and moves forward. From the way her lips are twisted and her eyes are slightly darkened, I can tell she's been thinking about this just as much as I have. "Well, she's definitely pregnant."

"You talked to her?"

She nods in response. I try and withold my questions to maintain some sense of pride, but it's hard when everyone else seems to be in the equal know. Or lack of.

"Is she keeping it?"

"Seems so at this point," she sighs tiredly, before moping past me as she runs a hand through her hair. "What do you think about this?"

I follow her as she walks, completely entranced by her calm reaction. "I feel bad for her. It's a hard choice. Shit luck."

"What would you do?"

"Huh?"

"If you got pregnant."

Huh. That does pose an interesting thought. Although it is a thought that makes my stomach crawl and my toes curl. I didn't even want to look after a baby before the dead started coming back to life, let alone have one and keeping it alive. "Oh...uh..." The question instantly makes my uncomfortable, and no simple answers come to mind. "I guess I wouldn't get pregnant," I decide to say.

Andrea doesn't buy it, and quirks an eyebrow towards me. "That's not the question."

"Well I don't know what to tell you. That's kinda personal."

Her voice drops into a considering silence for a few beats, before nodding her head towards the ground. "...You're right. Sorry." I chose to kick a rock across the ground instead of replying. As the silence drifts in like an unwelcome friend, she lifts her eyes towards me. "You know what this means?"

"It means a lot of things. Lori will need more food. Water. Then there's the whole pressure of keeping the baby alive. If it dies, it'll kill her, and if it's born, it'll probably die anyway." When I catch sight of her bright blue eyes again, she appears to have recoiled at the idea. I guess I can't withold my harsh thoughts even if I want to. "...God, sorry. That sounded-"

"No, I guess you're right."

The thought is uncomfortable between us, and settles in the air like poison.

We've stopped by a driveway, a single car laying lazily parked just off-center. Dust has gathered around the frame and on the windows, like a dirty blanket suffocating the previously shiny metal. A cool breeze rushes past, cutting right through me. "It's getting colder," I say quietly, to break the unbareable quiet if nothing else.

Andrea says nothing, simply nodding her head and taking a large inhale of breath. There is still the need of one person written all over her face. It's clear that she is not coping well with Dale's death. The dark bags under her eyes and the droop in her shoulders show that she hasn't slept. Hasn't stopped thinking about it. Instead of attempting to carry on a conversation with me, she turns and begins to walk away. The urge inside me to say something is too strong to let her go.

"Andrea." Hearing her name, she turns her head over her shoulder. "...I'm really sorry. About Dale."

She flinches at his name. Her voice comes out a cracked, timid thing. "It's okay," she mumbled, casting her sad eyes to the ground. "He didn't die alone."

I want to say more, but nothing comforting comes to mind. I'm not great at this whole reassurance thing.

It's actually quite a relief when she musters up her energy to produce a weak smile. "I'm gonna go and check on her." Without anything else to say, she turns her head and continues her exit, taking the awkwardness with her that I'm so happy to rid of.

The silence barely settles in before a small shuffle of gravel echoes through my ears. Nothing to worry about; I know exactly what it is.

Or more, who it is.

When I was sure that she was gone, I turned towards the driveway and called out towards the car.

"You can come out."

After a thoughtful pause, the dark hair of Carl poked around the side before the rest of him followed.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I try my hardest not to question him immediately about what has happened. "I don't take kindly to spies, kid."

"I wasn't spying," he muttered in response. The face of a child, already developing the attitude of a teenager. Can't wait to see how Lori will handle that one.

"Then do tell, why were you behind the car?"

"...Hiding." When his head tilts up, I can just about see red rims around his eyes, and it's quickly clear that he's been crying. Perhaps out of frustration. He can't be blamed, really. I'd probably end up crying too. "I don't really wanna see anyone."

"...Have you talked to your Mom?"

"Yeah."

When he doesn't elaborate, I roll my eyes and wave my hand to prompt him. "...And?"

"She lied to me. I should know what's going on."

"I think she might have just been a little conflicted."

His eyes shoot towards me then, and there's anger and pain. Nothing that suits him, and nothing that he should be wearing, but it's definitely there. "But it's my brother or sister," he says, bitterness lacing his voice.

I can't do anything but give a small nod in return. "I know."

"I hate having secrets being hidden from me. I can deal with things." Without warning, he lets out an anguished cry into the air, and turns towards the car once more slamming his foot against the metal frame. "It's just bullshit!" he spits, kicking it again. He doesn't stop, and the sound of the contact is painful to listen to. The car gently rocks back and forth with the movement as he continiously kicks against the vehicle.

"Carl," I sharply demand. I don't like the way my voice sounds, but he barely notices. Before I know it, I'm walking over, and grabbing his shoulder to pull him away. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay."

"No, it's not!" he whines, raising a fist and whacking it against my stomach. It doesn't hurt, but I don't think he intends it to. He's angry, and wants to scream and yell and get rid of the anger that he's suddenly feeling.

It's too much to bear. His face is contorted into an evil thing, filled with hate and fire for everything that's doing this to him. His family, this world; everything. It's the only thing I can truly understand, and there's only one thing I can think to do to stop him before he hurts himself.

I grab his shoulders with both hands to steady him, and without thinking, I pull him into me and wrap my arms around his frame. I'm not quite sure how this works, but it seems natural to place one arm around his back and the other just behind his head. "Stop!" It sounds like a plead, but it works, as I can feel his frame slowly but surely relax a little more. Soon, the flailing of fists stops, and he's just leaning into me with his arms by his sides and his head buried against my stomach. His shoulders are shaking, but I can't hear tears. "Jesus. Calm down."

My heart freezes stiff when I feel his arms link around my back. A strange shifting feeling behind my stomach makes itself known.

Hugging is unnatural to me. But this isn't hugging. This is something much more intense, and I'm not sure I know what to call it.

However, it's not completely unpleasant.

The feeling that comes next can only be described as a long needed breath of air.

Loneliness, when you feel it, can feel like drowning. Like nobody can hear you but you're sinking deeper and deeper into the dark the longer you're on your own.

People like Carl and Daryl make it a little easier to swim back up.

Suddenly, it hits me. What this strange and foreign sensation is. It's something completely terrifing and compromising, and I shove it back down as fast as I can.

I step out of Carl's arms quickly, ignoring the questioning look that automatically comes to his face. "Dude," I say, my voice sounding dry with the heavy thoughts. I stick out a finger and prod his chest. "Don't talk like that again. I don't want the blame for your foul mouth."

A corner of his lip upturns in a hidden smirk. Yeah, real impressive. Swearing will be one of those things that always cause kids amusment. But it disappears as quickly as it came as he remembers his previous dismay. His hands slide into his pockets, and his shoe scuffs against the dirt. "...It probably won't even be that great."

"What won't?"

"Having a brother or sister. It's already making everyone fight. What'll happen when it comes?"

The air has settled now, and the sense of calm has somewhat returned. "You kidding?" I scoff. "Being a big brother? Gotta be the best."

He looks up at me, obvious doubt in his tired eyes. "How?"

"You're only getting a damn personal slave," I reply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You get a best bud. You're gonna be the boss of the kid. Enjoy it."

There's a look of doubt that flashes in his eyes, but it's lost as they flicker past me. Something else has caught his attention now.

When I turn my head, I see Daryl standing just a few feet away, his eyes dead set on the pair of us with intense observation.

Unsettlement runs through me like hot water. I hope that he didn't catch sight of Carl and I in our private moment of peace.

If he did, he doesn't say anything, and simply nods his head towards Carl like a silent command. "Yer' Dad wants ya."

I hear a small sigh from the kid beside me, but he doesn't dare disobey Daryl's obvious prompt to leave. He barely sends another glance towards me as he walks away, his shoulders stooped and his head fallen.

After watching him leave in the direction of the house (we don't need another situation like last time), I turn my head to where Daryl stands, his arms hanging by his sides limply. As he looks back towards me, there is some hidden scrutiny in his eyes that I can't quite figure out. Something beyond simple observance.

"What?" I ask, my voice short and snappy sounding.

It takes him a moment to reply, but when he does, it's a quick mumble accompanied by the shrug of the shoulders. "Nothin'."

I don't bother to pursue the thought, as there's another burning deep at the back of my mind. Daryl's opinion on the pregnancy should be interesting. He begins to walk, and moves past me with a brush of air that's calm and everything that doesn't match the group's mentality. He seems an outsider in every way possible. "Daryl?"

He stops at the car in which Carl was hiding behind. He doesn't turn his back to face me, but none the less gives me his ears as he opens the backseat and pulls out a black backpack. The sound of water in bottles rushes from the inside as he lifts it out. "Hmm?"

I follow him and lean against the side of the frame, watching him as he works. "What do you think about this? The whole pregnancy thing, I mean."

"Tough luck," he muttered, as if it meant less than nothing to him. "Ain't ma problem Lori got herself knocked up."

"Yeah, but...it's weird."

"Not really."

"What do you mean?"

He answers with a half-hearted shrug. "Well, was bound to happen sooner or later." As he swings the bag back over his shoulder, a small smirk is hides in the corner of his face, like a private joke. "She's the only one havin' sex round here, after all."

When he's finished speaking, he looks at me and catches my eyes in his. We're not children by any means, but the mention of sex, for some reason, feels pretty taboo. Especially when Daryl says it. Any response to that is completely non-existant, and the air quickly shifts between us into an uncomfortable silence. His own words catch up with him, and his head drops to the ground hastily.

A small mumble leaves him moments later, accompanied by shifting feet and an avoidance of eye contact. "I'm gonna...leave."

I push myself away from the car, and point in a general direction that I'm really not paying attention to as much as I pretend I am. "Yeah, I gotta just...uh, check the uh...stuff."

Without anything else to say, I turn my back on him and walk away, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks.

It would seem at this point that the day literally cannot get any stranger.

* * *

><p><em>-X-<em>

_Redneck and Newbie leave quickly._

_He looks at her once more but she doesn't see._

_This whole mission is starting to feel like some terrible soap opera._

_No time for this. _

_Focus needs to be kept. Time is running short._

_The biters are gaining in fast, and the first part of the plan is already complete. There is only one thing to be done right now._

_Blood was always the prettiest thing._

_It feels wet and slippery in the hands as you hold it. The smell is metallic, and sharp against the nostrils._

_You can almost see why the hungry dead want your flesh. It's so...appealing._

_So beautiful._

_You empty the last of the large plastic bag onto the dried, crunchy grass, and the contents spill out like gold. There is now an artwork of blood and insides laying there, and it's oh-so tempting to teach out and touch it. It couldn't hurt. Just perhaps a touch..._

_No. _

_No time. The biters are coming in close, you can hear them. The boss was very clear about what he wanted. No screw-ups. No second tries._

_The pair of wire-cutters you place against the fence for later. The time of action rings in your head like a constant command. 7:00pm. Not a second later or sooner. You abandon the bag and take off from the scene, never looking back at the mess you've made. _

_Even as you get furthur and furthur away, the sweet smell of blood still hangs in the air._


End file.
